The Slash Man
by Engazed
Summary: After ten days of unspeakable torture at the hands of Sherlock's worst enemies, John Watson has returned to Baker Street to live with a man whose death, no matter how fake, still haunts him. But his recovery is not easy, his friendship with Sherlock is strained, and a dangerous but hidden menace continues to threaten them both. Violence/Horror/Rape
1. The St Mary's Abductions

To new readers: Although this book is a continuation of the story begun in Ten Days, there are enough references to what came before that it is not essential for you to have read Book I of the trilogy. This book can stand alone. However, to fully understand the conflicts these characters must deal with, it may be useful to read Ten Days first.

To readers of Ten Days: Thank you for your past comments and kudos, and especially for your patience in waiting for Book II. I appreciate your support more than I can say. I hope you enjoy where the story goes from here. Once again, please take heed of the archive warnings. As before, I will place additional warnings at the beginning of relevant chapters.

This story begins approximately two weeks after Ten Days left off.

* * *

**CHAPTER 1: THE ST MARY'S ABDUCTIONS**

**FRIDAY, JANUARY 2, 2015**

Lights flashed and bulbs popped as Sally Donovan—straight-backed and stiff-necked—crossed the platform behind a long table and its two empty chairs. She took the one on the left, as always, and doggedly ignored the vacant seat beside her. The cameras were rolling and the reporters were rocking in their seats, eyes tracking her every movement. Her own eyes were lowered, fixed on the page in her hand, reciting the words in her head, yet again. She could feel the dryness in her throat and so, stalling, she sipped slowly from the glass of water that had been left there for her. Then she raised her chin, and the steady murmur of voices hushed.

She let the silence hang for a few seconds longer than necessary while she recalibrated her baseline of composure. Then she cleared her throat, squared her shoulders, and began.

'New Scotland Yard has issued the following statement,' she said in the perfunctory manner as she had long ago perfected. Nevertheless, she took another long, palliative breath through her nose. 'As we continue our investigations, the Metropolitan Police announce that Mr Sherlock Holmes has been absolved of all suspicion connecting him to the murder of Ms Mary S Morstan, as well as to the abductions of Ms Morstan and Dr John H Watson, that occurred in October of last year. Additionally, and in light of new evidence, Mr Holmes has been acquitted of the posthumous charge of homicide in the case of the fatal shooting of Mr Richard Brook back in June of 2011.'

The reporters stirred on the edges of their chairs as they leaned forward, some with outstretched arms holding audio recorders and microphones, others with pad and pen perched on a stabilising knee. One or two tutted, but they all waited for her to finish.

'The Yard wishes to convey its'—she powered through the next part, hesitating only slightly on next word—'sincerest apologies to Mr Holmes and to his loved ones who were in any way affected by these false charges.

'Finally, New Scotland Yard expresses its deepest regret regarding certain of its officers' criminal involvement in the events that led to murder, abduction, and torture of London citizens, as well as to the obfuscation of evidence, the hindering of an investigation, and the corruption that took place at various levels of law enforcement; and, as officers of the law, we declare our dedication to enforcing the laws of this city and ensuring the protection of its people. The public may rest assured that we are doing everything within our legal power to ensure that such corruption is purged from this organisation and punished to the fullest extent of the law.'

She laid the page upon the table and lifted her eyes to meet the gathered men and women of the press. Familiar faces stared back at her, reporters and journalists and bloggers and analysts who had covered the _Boffin Holmes Murder-Suicide_ three-and-a-half years before, in tandem with the flurry of interest over Holmes' supposedly orchestrated cases from the months and years prior. The public had chewed, swallowed, and asked for second helpings of everything. Now they were back for more—she could see the hunger in their eyes, could practically hear them licking their lips with salivating tongues. She found herself agreeing with DI Lestrade's characterisation of the press: _vultures, hyenas. Sickos_.

But the seat beside her was empty.

Pushing down the resentment that began to stir anew while she sat there on her own, she prepared to lift the latch that would break open the floodgates.

'I will take questions _only_ as they relate to the Yard's statement,' she said.

At once, the room swelled with the cacophony of voices.

'Sgt Donovan.' A woman's sharp voice cut like a razor through the din, and Donovan's attention turned to Ida Fedezco of _The Daily Telegraph_, who had shot to her feet, though her eyes were still scanning her notes. 'How is it that the Yard could have been so ignorant of the subterfuge taking place within its own walls, and how can you be confident that all double agents have been exposed?'

They were going straight for the jugular, but Donovan didn't even wince. This was the very reason she was chosen time and time again to act as NSY spokesperson: she had mastered the art of the unruffled, and she knew how to stick to a script.

So she answered succinctly and without passion: 'The majority of the double agents were not plants but were officers, once in good standing, but recruited to engage in crimes through bribery and threats. During the course of our interrogations, these agents not only implicated themselves but also identified one another. Furthermore, the perpetrators of all suspicious and criminal activities have been accounted for. We are confident that all secret operatives have been uncovered.'

'Sergeant, you say _most_ of the double agents were not plants.'

She gave a shallow but conceding nod. 'It is not clear how long Chief Superintendent Pitts had been working as a spy, and we never had the chance to interrogate him on the matter. Very few of the others were aware of his involvement, it seems.'

A man just behind Ms Fedezco stood and inserted his own question before _The Daily Telegraph_ could slip in another. 'How many officers, then, were uncovered?'

'Ten,' said Donovan crisply. They couldn't know how deeply the thought rankled her. 'Their names have already been released. All nine living have pled guilty to the charges brought against them. We cannot know how Tony Pitts would have answered those charges, and I'll not speculate on that.'

'Ms Donovan,' said Alvin Saunders, _BBC News_, 'what can you tell us about Everett Stubbins' most recent claim that Sherlock Holmes was aware of the subterfuge _three years_ ago, and that he even had a hand in organising it?'

'His claims are groundless,' she replied tersely.

'Given Mr Holmes' questionable history and dangerous character, why is the Yard so quick to dismiss the claim?'

_Your insight into the inner workings of the Yard's investigations is astounding_, she thought, in a voice that echoed Lestrade's own sarcastic lilts and cadences. Instead, she answered with a politician's brevity and tact. 'We treat no claims with levity, I assure you, especially none as grave as that.'

'And yet you have dismissed the charges brought against Sherlock Holmes, a known fraud, a criminal conspirator—'

Donovan shifted forward in her seat. 'I would like to reiterate the Yard's position concerning Mr Holmes,' she said, reining in a huff of irritation. 'Sherlock Holmes has been fully exonerated by this institution. There is insufficient evidence to support any claim that he was in any way criminally involved in the deaths surrounding this case. Past charges have been dismissed in light of new evidence. And any characterisations of the man as _dangerous_ can be attributed not to Scotland Yard but to various media outlets and are considered by _this_ organisation to be greatly exaggerated.'

She was on the edge of losing her cool. She unballed her hands and flattened them on the table.

'Ms Donovan.' The newest petulant voice belonged to Sandra Hitchens of _The Daily Mail_. She held an audio recorder in an outstretched hand to capture the exact proceedings sans bias, but her eyes were incredulous, her head shaking with disapproval. 'Surely Scotland Yard isn't ignoring the common element in all these tragedies! Kidnappings, the "Moriarty crimes", Richard Brook's death, and now the St Mary's Abductions! These were all clearly planned well in advance of their execution and resulted in multiple deaths, and Sherlock Holmes has been at the centre of all of it. In fact, _The Daily Mail_ attributes no fewer than _seven _deaths to Mr Holmes: Mary Morstan, Frank Vander Maten, Hugh Freemont, Tony Pitts, Peter Caldwell, Alexander Slough, and Richard Brook. And these latest six, all in the name of Sherlock Holmes' miraculous return from the dead!'

'That's a gross mischaracterisation—'

'How can Scotland Yard honestly seek to deny Holmes' involvement?'

'The Yard makes no effort to deny anything that is true . . .'

'And yet you refuse to hold a murderer accountable!'

'How can Londoners feel safe with Sherlock Holmes on the loose?' shouted the reporter from _The Daily Star_.

Said _The Independent_, 'What about justice for Ms Morstan, Mr Freemont—?'

'How can you let Richard Brook's killer go free without standing trial?' said _The Observer._

'_Richard Brook wasn't real!_'

The room hushed again, but for the sudden resurgence of flashing lights and popping bulbs.

'I'm sorry, sergeant, could you say that again?' Michaela Warner, _The Guardian_.

Donovan couldn't believe what she had just done, and she blinked, stunned, into the eyes of the cameras. In all the years she had spent addressing the press, she had never blundered, never moved more than an inch away from the prescribed script. _Stick to the statement, Donovan_, Chief Superintendent Gregson had told her in the seconds before she entered the room. _The manhunt continues, Sherlock Holmes is innocent, and the Yard is seeking severest punitive measures against those who acted as double agents. Details can wait._

'Did you say that Richard Brook wasn't . . . _real_?'

She swallowed, resisting the urge to reach for the glass again and delay her response. 'I'm afraid I misspoke,' she said carefully. She knew she would be reprimanded for this later, but it was either explicate her slip-up now or allow the false stories to fester longer in the public mind like an infected wound. 'Richard Brook _was_ real,' she said, 'but he was not the man who died on the rooftop of St Bartholomew's. That was a man named James Moriarty.'

'Kitty Riley for _The Sun_!' A woman with fiery hair in the very front row sprang to her feet and nearly toppled over on her expensive court shoes. But she righted herself, straightened her green tweed blazer, and said, 'James Moriarty was an invention of Sherlock Holmes, a fact that has been well documented.' She stabbed a pencil into the centre of her notepad as though the evidence were in her hand.

'Sit down, Ms Riley, before you hurt yourself,' said Donovan. Again, she was shocked by the words leaving her mouth. As free as she was with the insults in other venues, she had always maintained careful check on them in settings where her professionalism was being monitored.

Ms Riley riled but did not sit down. 'On what basis does the Yard justify its reopening of a case that was solved three-and-a-half years ago?'

Donovan gritted her teeth as she said, 'We were wrong.'

'Or perhaps, Ms Donovan, you are wrong _now_. I met Richard Brook. I spoke with his family, with friends and associates. He was an _actor _Sherlock Holmes _hired_—'

With elevated voice, Donovan overtook her: 'Mr Richard Brook of Sussex was an out-of-work actor who disappeared from his home in Crawley in early June of 2011. Days later, James Moriarty—the same master criminal who stood trial for breaking into the Tower of London, Pentonville Prison, and the Bank of London two months before—re-emerged in London, calling himself _Richard Brook_ and giving fake interviews under that guise. Using the real Mr Brook's credentials and bearing a passing resemblance to the man'—_striking_ resemblance, she thought to herself—'he was able to fool'—here she glared as Ms Riley and wasn't sorry for it—'some paltry and credulous aspiring journalist into lapping up his every defaming word against Mr Holmes and committing it to print.'

Shamefully, Donovan had to admit that Moriarty's plan was embarrassingly simple, but effective.

'Detectives from the Yard have re-evaluated the evidence pertaining to Mr Moriarty's death and have considered new testimony, and they have determined that the only explanation of all the facts is that Moriarty committed suicide. That is all I will say of James Moriarty at present.'

She wouldn't mention that the new testimony had come from Sherlock Holmes. Nor would she confess that it had also been Sherlock Holmes who had prodded them into looking more deeply into the character of Richard Brook, whom he had long suspected to be a true figure. In fact, the less she actually said the word _Holmes_, the better.

'Then what of Richard Brook?' said Ms Warner.

'The real Richard Brook,' said Donovan with great reticence (oh, she was going to be flogged when Gregson got hold of her!), 'has not been seen or heard from since 2011. He has officially been declared a missing person.'

Donovan heard Ms Riley mutter, 'That's convenient,' but she ignored her.

_The Guardian _persisted: 'Is he presumed dead?'

_Not officially. Not yet._ 'No comment.'

'What actions are being taken to recover him?'

_We're applying to the Secretary of State for Justice for an inquest in the absence of a body. He'll be declared dead before the week is out_. 'No comment at this time. You'll have to take that question to the Sussex Police. It's their jurisdiction.'

'Sgt Donovan,' said Ms Fedezco again, 'are you telling us that _no_ charges will be brought against Sherlock Holmes?'

'None.'

'What about deceiving law enforcement officers? What about resisting arrest? Was he not, at that time, in possession of an officer's handgun?'

Donovan's nostrils flared as she took yet another long breath through her nose. 'I repeat, Mr Holmes has been fully exonerated. No charges stand against him.'

The murmur of disbelief and disapproval was growing louder.

'Will the Met be watching him?' asked _The Times_.

'We do not make a habit of monitoring the innocent,' Donovan snapped.

'And what about Mr Watson? Are you not concerned for his safety?'

Donovan nodded. Perhaps they were back on track. 'Yes, the Yard's concern for Dr Watson's safety is paramount, and the manhunt for the _actual_ perpetrators of this crime continues—'

'But is he safe from Sherlock Holmes?'

For the first time, Donovan was flummoxed, and all she could do was gape. Safe from _Sherlock_? John Watson?

'Is it true,' said _The Daily Mail_, taking advantage of her pause, 'that Mr Holmes and Mr Watson have again taken residence together?'

'I'll not comment on that,' said Donovan, rather weakly.

'Sergeant, what can you tell us about the nature of their relationship?'

'No comment.'

'Are they co-conspirators? What about the speculations that Holmes has a firm, psychological grip on Watson?'

'_No comment._'

'What is Mr Watson's current condition?'

'That's a matter for _Doctor_ Watson and his physicians.'

'Is it true that he has refused psychological counselling? Was the trauma he experienced not as grave as initially reported?'

'Why won't he speak to the press?'

'Could it be that Sherlock Holmes is silencing him?'

'Is it possible that Mr Watson was in on the St Mary's Abductions from the start?'

'All right, I'm shutting this down.' Donovan was suddenly on her feet, all but shaking with fury. 'I will not entertain this _speculative_ journalism. The Yard has made its statement. Follow-up questions can be addressed to the office of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. Good day.'

With that, she snatched the page off the table and strode from the room, back still straight, head still held high, but her tongue was bleeding from where her teeth down bit mercilessly into it.

* * *

Sally Donovan stood bent over at the sink, splashing her warm face with water and suppressing a groan deep, deep down. Instead, she sighed out a great breath. She gripped either side of the sink and let the droplets stream from her nose and chin and slip down the drain. Then she lifted her head to stare at her reflection in the glass. At least she didn't look as haggard as she felt. Her eyes looked a little more tired than normal, perhaps, but her dark skin hid any flush well enough. Hopefully, the cameras hadn't picked up on her near-explosion.

It was supposed to have been a simple press conference. Exonerate Holmes in the eyes of the press, ensure the public that the true criminals would be found and punished, and leave everyone confident in the knowledge that Scotland Yard had everything well in hand. How had she managed to bungle every single one of those things! She felt like she had lost her footing. For the last three years, her confidence in herself and her career had soared. All those years of griping about Holmes' involvement in her cases, writing him off as a psychopath, and even predicting his turn of fortunes had been validated. Strange, then, how _victorious_ was not at all the emotion she experienced when she had learnt he had committed suicide. In fact, she couldn't name the emotion at all, so she settled on _anger_, anger at the way he had made her, made them _all_, into fools. Anger had always been a comfortable guise for her to wear.

In the following weeks and months, and stretching on into years, she had fastidiously avoided conversations of which Holmes was the subject, and she ignored all other passing mentions of the man. Anderson still got off on verbally abusing him, but Lestrade seemed to have taken her stance and preferred never to mention him. The man was dead and gone; the criminal class was not, and there was work to be done.

Almost, she erased the memory of him from existence. It took time, but eventually she stopped seeing him in the corner of her eye, lurking in the shadows at crime scenes or striding down the halls of the Yard like he owned the place. The holes he had left—that he had had no right to create to begin with—had been filled.

And then the day came when Donovan saw John Watson's face on the wall. Her first thought had been, to her consternation, not Watson, but _Sherlock_. And in that moment, it was like those three years had collapsed into nothing, as if he had never left the shadows of her mind after all, just hadn't moved, so she had forgotten he was there. And this latest case, Watson's disappearance, the one she had urged Lestrade to ignore, was slowly resurrecting him. It came as almost no surprise, then—_almost _no surprise—to find him alive in the waiting room of St Bart's, only two short days after recovering his half-dead friend from the condemned convent.

The St Mary's Abductions. That's what the press was calling it, and Donovan disdained the moniker. Compared to the true breadth and scope of it, it seemed so inadequate, almost innocuous, and therefore offensive. Still, it was preferable to the name that had attached itself to the lips of the officers of the Metropolitan Police: the Sherlock Holmes Mess, they were calling it. A mess? Absolutely. But _that_ moniker implied that all the murders, violence, and subterfuge were a mere annoyance, a hiccough in the day-to-day workings of a copper's beat, and not the serious criminal affront that it was.

It was one of those days where she thought she might have been better off following in her father's profession and studying contract law. _He'd _never had a day quite like this one.

When she was ready, she patted her face dry, rolled her shoulders back, and walked steadily toward the door. She had to stuff down the urge to kick it open.

Anderson, arms folded and head slack, leant against the wall beside the door to the ladies' loo where she had left him. Or rather, where he had stopped tailing her. She hadn't spoken a word to him as she sped herself away from the conference room, and he'd had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

Her feet came to a stop in the middle of the hallway. Shaking her head and worrying her fingertips into her furrowed brow, she said, 'I can't believe I did that.'

'Which part?' asked Anderson, pushing himself off the wall. 'The part where you lost your composure, or the part where you defended Sherlock Holmes?'

She turned a glaring eye on him. 'The part where I blabbed about Richard Brook.'

He shrugged. 'It's not like it's classified.'

'Yeah, well _that_ lot were hardly ready for it. I sounded like a conspiracy nutter. Now they think Sherlock's pulled another one on us.'

'Hasn't he, though?' Anderson muttered under his breath.

Folding her arms and assuming her severest posture, she challenged him. 'What's that?'

'Nothing.'

'You have a problem with Holmes, take it up with Lestrade.'

'Oh right, _Lestrade_. As if he hasn't been in bed with Sherlock from the start.'

'Then take your whinging to Gregson.'

'There you go again. Defending the freak. Never thought you for a fangirl, Sally.'

'Hey. _Hey_.' She stuck a finger in his chest until he had the balls to raise his eyes to look at her properly. 'I never said he wasn't a tosser. Most days, I wish I'd never met the sorry son of a bitch. But that doesn't make him a criminal. Stop being such a berk and use your brain some days, okay?'

She spun around, intending to storm all the way back to Lestrade's office, when she stopped short and found herself nose to nose with Kitty Riley, reporter for _The Sun_, who held an audio recorder in her hand. The button glowed red.

'Excuse me, Ms Riley,' she said curtly, 'but the press conference ended five minutes ago.'

'Just some follow-up questions, Sgt Donovan, if you don't mind.'

'I do mind, in fact.'

'Won't take a moment.'

But Donovan was in no mood to banter back and forth with the likes of Ms Riley. Without a word, she started away, but the reporter followed on her heels, Anderson trailing behind. 'If Richard Brook really had gone missing in early June three years ago,' she asked, 'why was it not reported?'

'Take it up in Sussex, Ms Riley.'

'It seems odd that the family didn't realise they were burying the wrong man. How do you account for _that_, if he were not, in fact, Richard Brook?'

Grinding her teeth, Donovan rounded the corner. At the end of the hall stood two security guards, or, as she silently dubbed them, Ms Riley's escorts.

The questions kept coming: 'Has Sherlock Holmes been questioned regarding Mr Brook's disappearance? Has he been subjected to lie detector tests? How will the Yard answer the public if he _does_ prove dangerous?'

But Kitty must have, at that moment, noticed the guards, because she suddenly stopped; Anderson had to dance around her to avoid collision. But Donovan kept striding, satisfied to be putting the pesky reporter behind her. But the woman wasn't finished with Donovan.

'Is it true,' Kitty said, nearly shouting, 'that evidence in the St Mary's Abductions has gone missing?'

Donovan halted. How the _hell_ could she know a thing like that! That was strictly confidential. Not even Anderson knew that. Well, he did now.

Kitty seemed to realise that she had struck a nerve. Her voice drew nearer, and Donovan heard a distinct sing-songy swagger colouring her every syllable as she read down a short list in her notepad. 'A pair of grey underwear. A red dog dish. And something called a barbed cilice, though to be honest, I'm not entirely sure what that one is . . .'

Donovan rounded on her. She snatched the recorder from Kitty's hand, pushed the off button, and threw it to the ground. Kitty's eyes went wide with a mix of affront and delight.

'The press has been told nothing about evidence,' Donovan said.

'I'm sure my readers will be curious about what all those things were used for. We've been told so little about what went on in that place, after all. Offer a statement? Or let them draw their own conclusions—they're an imaginative lot.'

'Who is your source?' said Donovan.

'So it _is_ true.'

'Your source!'

'Grant me an interview. The inside scoop.'

'That's extortion. I can have you arrested. If you have information involving a crime—'

'_I_ do not. My source does, and I cannot be forced to reveal my source. But I'm sure I don't need to educate you on the tenets of freedom of the press, or on a journalist's professional integrity.'

'_Integrity?_ That's a laugh.'

'I'm trustworthy. People know they can rely on me to be discreet.'

Donovan took a menacing step closer, the tips of her flats knocking against Ms Riley's too-shiny court shoes; their noses nearly bumped, but Kitty didn't so much as flinch. In heels, she came up to Donovan's level. But Donovan had always known how to make other people feel small. Most people.

'This isn't about integrity with you. It's about fear. You're afraid. Afraid that the biggest story of your life, the one that made your career, was all a lie. Moriarty _was_ real, Sherlock Holmes is alive, and you were played for a fool. Where does that leave you now?'

Feeling calmer than she had all morning, Donovan stepped back. 'You can't hide under a cloak of freedom-of-the-press rhetoric for long. It's thinner than you think.' She gave Kitty Riley one final, scornful appraisal, turned, and walked away, kicking the recorder aside as she went.

Anderson watched her go, befuddled and agitated. Then he glanced down to where Kitty was bending over to retrieve her digital recorder. The battery cover had popped open, but it seemed otherwise undamaged. Kitty pushed the batteries back into position, closed the cover, and hit play. _'. . . something called a barbed cilice . . .'_ they heard. Kitty smiled and hit stop. Then she lifted her eyes to him.

'You're not fooled, though. Are you?'

He shook himself as though from a daze. 'Pardon?'

Kitty shrugged, brushing the imaginary lint Donovan had left in her wake from her jacket sleeves. 'Must be hard. Being the lone voice of reason. Being the only man left in the Yard that can see him for what he really is.' She stilled, making sure that Anderson's eyes were locked on hers. 'A liar. A manipulator. A master criminal.'

'Yeah, well,' said Anderson, feeling a bit dodgy about talking to her. He had received an official censure for giving an interview back in November, and he wasn't keen on receiving another.

'You're very brave. After all, you were the one who exposed him the first time. Given his popularity back then, that couldn't have been easy.'

_Well, that had mostly been Donovan_, he thought, but he said, 'Not easy, no. But one has a duty. To, you know. The law. Justice.'

'Mm,' said Kitty by way of agreement. 'Never you fear, Mr Anderson. We exposed him once. It won't be easy for him to keep wearing the mantle of hero after all that. You'll keep an eye on him.' She slipped her card into the pocket of his suit coat. 'Won't you.'

She started away, and there was definitely a little more sway in her hips than before. 'I'll be in touch,' she said.


	2. Shared Recovery

**CHAPTER 2: SHARED RECOVERY**

**FRIDAY, JANUARY 2, 2015**

The clock on the wall was stuck in a time warp. It claimed that only forty minutes had passed, but surely they had been sitting there for hours already.

'And how are you sleeping these days?'

He dragged his eyes from the wall. The question was slow to register. 'Pardon?'

'Are you still having nightmares?'

He chewed his tongue a moment. Twenty more minutes. He had to endure just twenty more minutes. 'Just the one.'

'Let's talk about that.'

'There's nothing to talk about. It's the same as always.'

He wanted to fidget—to tug on his coat sleeves, cross his legs, shift his back to get rid of the fold of fabric he could feel pressing into his spine—but he remained still. These were the types that read far too much into body language: how the hands were positioned, how often the legs moved, where the eyes wandered. Stare too intently back, they read it as challenge. Look at one's hands, shame. Watch the world through the closed window, entrapment. Monitor the door, paranoia. Keep an eye on the clock: anger.

Well, they got that one right.

'Sometimes talking about it, talking _through _it, helps. It gives you power over what you feel is out of your control.'

'I'm sure.'

'I know I don't need to tell you this again, but some things bear repeating often: this is a safe zone. A place free of judgement, expectations, or demands.'

'Mm.'

'Nothing leaves this room.'

'So you've said.'

'But you don't trust what I say.'

In response, he said nothing at all.

'When you say the dream is the same, you mean the one about . . . about Mary?'

He glared from his spot on the sofa.

'The one where you watch her die?'

'I said I'm not talking about it.'

'Greg.' Dr Quinton leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and adopting his most sincere _I'm-here-for-you_ expression. It made Lestrade want to throw something at his face. 'It's normal, perfectly normal, for a person in your line of work to feel guilt when working a case and someone gets . . . hurt.'

'She didn't just get hurt. She died.' Lestrade's eyes were back on the clock. His leg began to bounce incessantly on the ball of his foot. When he noticed, he stopped.

'What we need to remember, though, is that even those of us committed to helping people, _protecting_ people, aren't superheroes. We can't save everyone.'

'Is that so? Huh. Well, that solves it, then.'

'Greg—'

'Why don't we talk about Anderson again? About what an impertinent dickhead he's become over the last few weeks—that was fun. Or hell, let's have another go at Angela. We can talk about _more_ ways I failed her as a husband. I've thought of a few more, thanks to our last meeting.'

Dr Quinton nodded sagely, if not sardonically. 'Or maybe we could talk about Molly, how you're getting on with _her_.'

Lestrade scowled and looked at his hands. _Shut up, moron_, he thought. _Eighteen minutes_.

'But what I think we should really talk about is Mary.'

'No,' said Lestrade, 'what _you_ want to talk about is me, and what a bungling copper I really am.'

'I never said bungling. Why do _you_ say bungling?'

Huffing out a sigh, Lestrade cast his eyes to the window.

'Do you know why we're still doing this, Greg? Why we're still having these sessions?'

'Because I'd rather like to keep my job.'

'Let me rephrase. Yes, your employment is currently contingent on whether I deem you of fit enough mind to continue _without_ our little sessions. So why do you think I haven't yet?'

'I've been asking myself that for weeks.'

'Have you had a go yet at answering yourself?'

Lestrade stared at Dr Quinton long and hard. He didn't deserve this. Any officer had to meet with one of the Yard's counsellors for a minimum of three one-hour sessions after being shot or otherwise gravely injured in the line of duty, and he hadn't complained about a single one of them. He had even welcomed the chance to unload a little and spoke openly of all the burdens he had lately felt himself beset with (burdens _aside_ from taking a bullet to the gut and watching Pitts' head explode six inches away from his own). Well, perhaps not _all_. But enough. Enough to make any therapist worth his salt believe he was being an entirely forthcoming and willing participant in what Dr Quinton called a _shared recovery_.

But that was until Dr Quinton's first official review at the end of November: _Patient's psychology not entirely stable; may be suffering acute stress disorder. Strongly recommending continued sessions._ And so Gregson had given him probationary status. As a consolation prize, he told Lestrade that he could go about his duties as normal, provided that he continued to meet with Dr Quinton for an hour a week until it was determined that further sessions were no longer necessary.

After thirty days, Dr Quinton began to scribble words like _psychological trauma_ and _behavioural shifts_ into his notes. Lestrade understood the implications and regarded them with derision. PTSD? Hardly. A couple of nightmares, and Dr Quinton was trumping it all up to psychological trauma? Someone needed to recheck that man's credentials.

So no. He was done talking about Sherlock and John. He wouldn't say another word about himself and Molly. And he sure as hell wouldn't talk about Mary, the dream, and how he—above everyone else—had failed her.

_Seventeen minutes_.

The tinny trill of a mobile sounded. Without breaking eye contact with the therapist, Lestrade reached into the front pocket of his jacket and extracted his phone.

'Lestrade.'

'Homicide.' Donovan's voice came across so clearly Dr Quinton could hear every consonant. 'Lower Clapton.'

'On my way.'

He closed the phone with a snap and offered a devil-may-care sort of a shrug. 'Duty calls,' he said. He pushed himself from the sunken sofa seat and to his feet. With an eagerness that a homicide should not have instilled, he turned toward the door.

'Greg.'

He stopped but did not turn back. There was a long pause.

'Same time next week.'

He let the door fall shut behind him with a bang.

* * *

'Inside scoop my arse,' he said, striding across the crunchy grass so quickly Donovan practically had to run to keep up. 'First thing tomorrow, I want that woman down at the Yard for questioning.'

He was in a bad temper, one that had only worsened since leaving Dr Quinton's office, and Donovan's report on the press conference—which she'd begun the moment he'd stepped from the car and into a puddle—did nothing but aggravate it further. Despite the cold, the sun was out (a rarity in London at this time of year), glaring too brightly for his winter-adjusted eyes, and he hadn't brought his sunglasses. And to cap it all off, some damn reporter knew about the missing evidence. There was a leak._ Another_ one!

'I'll find a reason to arrest her, if I have to,' said Donovan bitterly, passing him a pair of latex gloves. 'I'm sure I can dig something up. She's no nun.'

'I want to question her myself.' The hem of one glove snapped his wrist painfully as he dug his fingers toward the tips.

'Fine, but you'll get the same freedom-of-the-press crap she gave me.'

'It's _Kitty Riley_, for chrissake, and we're Scotland bloody Yard. Won't take much to scare her so bad she pisses herself and starts spilling the beans from her arse.'

As he huffed along, Donovan discreetly allowed herself to fall a pace or two behind. Lestrade didn't fail to notice, nor did he fail to discern her reason, and he instantly regretted not keeping better rein on his tongue. Though he'd been known to run his mouth with the best of them, he was never crude, even when he was upset. He didn't quite know what was the matter with him. And Donovan was unimpressed.

Pretending it was nothing, he slowed as they approached the yellow tape wrapped around the trunks of scots elms and horse chestnuts, sectioning off this stretch of the park. Other officers already on the scene parted to let them pass. Speaking to Donovan over his shoulder in far more measured tones, he said, 'What do we know?'

She nodded subtly in acknowledgement of his decisive return to professionalism. 'No identification found on the body,' she said as together they passed under the yellow tape. 'Male, Caucasian, looks to be between thirty-five and forty-five . . .'

A forensics officer was crouched beside the body, and two others stood over him, comparing notes. When they saw Lestrade approaching, using a hand as a visor to shield his eyes from the sun glaring through the tree limbs, they all moved aside, and Lestrade got his first look at the vic. He stopped short, several steps away.

The man was lying prostrate, his nose in the earth, his hands pinned beneath him. He had been divested of a winter coat and wore only a torn t-shirt, rustled halfway up his torso. His jeans and underwear were wrangling his knees. He wore socks but only one shoe. A dirty, white trainer.

'Jesus,' he said under his breath.

'Body was found by a woman, Lisbeth Owens, while she was out walking her dog. Initial assessment puts time of death within the last twelve hours, probably before dawn.'

Her words were slow to process, as if he were listening to them under water: he had been unexpectedly flooded with unaccountable rage, perilously mixed with fear, that engulfed his body from head to toe and muffled Donovan's report. For one passing moment, he felt that he might be sick. So he breathed, deeply, and when the chill air filled his lungs and he could feel his feet sinking into the cold mud beneath the patchy grass, the vision of John Watson lying dead on the ground receded from his eyes. _This_ man was a stranger, and he had seen the dead bodies of more strangers than he could count. This case was no different to all those that had come before it.

_Pull it together, DI_, he thought.

'Cause of death?'

'Possibly asphyxiation, sir,' said one of the forensics officers, returning to his crouched position by the body. 'Clear signs of bruising around the throat, which may be from a belt or rope.' He indicated with a latexed finger. 'Can't say for sure, of course, 'til we get the results of the autopsy.'

_So Molly and I will get that date tonight after all_. The thought made him morose.

'Sexual assault, was it?' A bitter taste filled his mouth at the utterance. He wanted to spit.

'Looks like it, yeah,' said another officer. 'Bruising on the thighs and buttocks, bleeding from the anus, probably from a torn rectum. Most of the blood's been washed away, though.'

'It hasn't rained,' said Lestrade.

'No, but can you smell it?'

Both Lestrade and Donovan leaned a little closer and sniffed.

'What is that? Bleach?'

'Sodium hypochlorite. For swimming pools. We found an empty four-litre bottle just over there. We've bagged it. Whoever did this is trying to destroy DNA evidence.'

'He can't've destroyed it all,' said Lestrade grimly. 'You've gotten all the photos of the scene as you found it?' he asked Donovan.

'Yes, sir.'

'Roll him.'

The team took hold of the body by the head, shoulders, and hips. As they turned it over, Lestrade caught sight of several deep scratches along the victim's waist and thighs. His torso was badly bruised. His hands were bound tightly in front of him.

'What is that?' asked Donovan. 'Shoelace?'

Lestrade crouched down to examine it. The black shoelace had been wrapped around the victim's wrist several times and knotted doubly. He carefully fingered the split aglet at one end of the string, then glanced down at the one shoed foot. It was a match, though the black laces was no counterpart to the white trainer. 'Where's the other shoe?' he asked.

'We haven't found it, sir,' said one officer.

'Keep looking.'

As he stood and removed the gloves, he directed the officers to bag the body and deliver it to St Bartholomew's morgue, finish collecting evidence from the crime scene, and get to work on identifying the sorry son of a bitch. Then, removing himself from the centre of the action, he gestured to Donovan with his head for her to join him.

'Whoever he was, he was homeless,' he said.

'How do you know?'

'The shoelaces.' He didn't explicate further on that point. 'And I'd wager my career that we're looking at the work of the Slash Man.'

'Darren Hirsch?'

'Yes.'

Donovan shook her head, not in disagreement but disgust. 'He'd be mad to draw attention to himself like this, so soon after . . .'

'We need to _find _the bugger, Donovan, and lock him up. Yesterday, if not today.'

She folded her arms resolutely, her nostrils flaring. 'Send a unit to Baker Street?'

'I'll go myself.'

'You won't . . .' She hesitated, but Donovan was never one _not_ to speak her mind. '. . . let him get involved. Will you? Warn them, fine, but we can handle this.'

But Lestrade was of no mind to argue with her. 'I wouldn't let him on if he begged me,' he said.


	3. Unwarranted Conclusions

**CHAPTER 3: UNWARRANTED CONCLUSIONS**

**FRIDAY, JANUARY 2, 2015**

Sherlock's feet pounded the pavement, sending shocks of pain up through his knees and into his skull. He'd been running so long he could barely breathe anymore and his lungs ached as though on fire, but he dared not slow. He dodged men and women, left and right, figures as stationary and immobile as bollards, placed on in his path only to encumber him, and when he darted across the street, cars streaked by so closely they whipped against his coat and sent shivers across his skin. The pale morning light, filtered through a thin layer of gauzy cloud, stung his eyes as he cast them upwards, scouring the rooftops for a lone figure, a dark silhouette against the sky.

He found him on a precipice.

Sherlock's feet came to a sudden and jarring halt. In a panic, he patted his pockets—trouser, coat, breast—only to discover he didn't have his phone. Where had he left it? How was it _possible_ he had left it! His phone was more than an accessory: it was a second brain, a second mouth, a third eye. Only once had he wilfully abandoned it, and never again. He would sooner leave behind his right hand than his phone.

Cupping his hands instead, he tilted his head to the wavering crag of white stone, and shouted. His words were lost in the blaring of a car horn. He shouted again, and the wind carried his voice away. Again, throat straining, he cried into the sky, but all the world had fallen deaf. All he could hear was the erratic rush of blood across his eardrums.

_Look at me_, he thought.

From far away (it felt like such a terrible distance), he saw John's head lower as though in slow motion. He felt, rather than saw, those pale blue eyes find him, and tether him. But Sherlock also felt the eye of a sniper, fixed not on him, but on John.

He couldn't warn him; there was no time, he had no means. But he had to save him. He had to. From the grave-cold pavement where he could stand no lower, Sherlock jumped.

But it was John who fell.

The sky was grey and the stone was white and John was shrouded in black—but he blazed like a falling star. Sherlock was blinded by searing white only moments before John's body reached the earth, and when it did, the impact in his bones drove him to his knees. Palms flat against the rough concrete, he trembled. His mouth formed the word _John_ as he struggled to find his feet and move again. He pushed forward to cross the street, a gap a mile wide, but moved arrested, as though through water. His vision was clearing, but slowly. _He's my friend_, he said, his voice weak as though from long disuse, but there was no one to hear him. The street was empty, deserted—he was the only one to have witnessed John's fall.

But no. Not quite the only one.

He reached the edge of the pavement. Only a short distance away, John lay on his side, small and naked and broken as a fallen bird. The skin of his back was shredded, but he could make out one vicious inscription: the letters _I O U_ sliced large and deep between the bony wings of his shoulder blades. And kneeling over him, the shadow of a man with a gleaming scalpel.

_Devil_, Sherlock said. His voice echoed and diminished.

Moriarty lifted his face. A white, slanted smile slashed across his dark countenance like a jack-o-lantern. He winked at Sherlock but returned his attention to John, to pet his cracked head with the backside of his fingers, the ones still holding the scalpel. Then Moriarty rolled him onto his back, revealing a tattered chest, bleeding freely. Sherlock saw that John was alive, but only just: beneath the translucent skin stretched across his sunken ribs, a glowing red heart beat faintly.

'Sherlock,' said Moriarty silkily, stroking John's face. 'Sherlock.'

Sherlock couldn't move, couldn't scream, could do nothing. He stood like a statue and felt just as cold.

Moriarty laughed, a dark chuckle deep inside his chest. 'This is how I burn you.'

Then he lifted the scalpel like a dagger. With devastating force, he drove it into John's heart.

* * *

Every muscled jumped, and Sherlock awoke with a gasp. His eyes flew open to blackness. For uncounted minutes, he lay still, trying to regain his breath. Gradually, his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, and he recognised the faint glow of the streetlamps pushing through the curtained window. But his heart continued to race, and the pain in his chest refused to subside. It felt like something long and sharp was lodged there, an imagined something, he knew, and he didn't approve of this kind of imagination. It was illogical. Like the dream, the lingering feeling of being afraid when there was nothing to fear. Unfounded response. He was determined to think past it.

When he was once again certain of his mental faculties, he pushed back the covers and sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows to knees, until a sharp pain across the back of his left hand drew him out of deep contemplation. He was scratching again. He balled his fingers into fists and reproached himself for the anxiety that persisted in the form of adrenaline in his system. Briefly he wondered: _why always _that_ dream?_ But he gave little credence to psychoanalysis and even less to dream interpretation. So he pushed the thought away, pushed the feelings down, _down_, and reached for his phone on the bedside table. _Here the whole time_, he thought, his inner voice scornful and annoyed.

The screen read 04.42. He knew he wouldn't be able to fall back asleep and didn't want to bother pretending. So he stood, grabbed his dressing gown from the hook on the bedroom door, and stepped out into the hallway. He weaved quietly through the kitchen and peeked into the sitting room—which was even brighter than his bedroom because, despite the curtains, the windows were larger and faced the street directly—to where John lay sleeping on the sofa.

It was where he had slept ever since returning to Baker Street, and Sherlock couldn't quite figure why. Thinking the stairs were a problem, what with his leg still healing and all, he offered to switch rooms and leave John the one on the first storey so he would have to negotiate only one flight. But the offer was declined and returned with firm indication that the sofa would be fine, for a couple of nights. Those couple of nights stretched into weeks, going on a month and a half, with no sign of change.

As always, John slept on his right side, favouring his left leg and facing out toward the room. He was never on his back anymore (the skin and deeper tissue had been too severely damaged and was still recovering), never faced inward toward the back of the sofa (because one does not sleep with his back to the enemy), and never, ever did he lie on his stomach (the position was far too vulnerable). Whether asleep or awake, his was a bearing of vigilance, and at night, John always slept like this: one arm hung over the side, fingertips nearly touching the grip of the pistol tucked just beneath the sofa, almost but not entirely out of sight; and the blanket was hitched up a little, exposing the toes of his socks, so that his feet would be free if he needed to move quickly and not be tangled up in the blanket.

Sherlock stood still for a long moment, watching him sleep, listening to his steady breathing, until he was entirely satisfied that the dream was not some sort of augury (not that such an idea wasn't pure twaddle—but he had to make sure). Five days had passed since John's last nocturnal attack, seven days since his last daytime terror—it was the longest stretch so far, and by this Sherlock was greatly encouraged. At the same time, he was becoming ever more anxious for the next one, not believing they were yet clear of them. But tonight, apparently, was not the night. He softly retreated, back down the hall, and closed himself into the bathroom.

The first thing he did was run his hands under cold water. He had drawn blood this time—not much, a deep scratch, a shallow cut, but it was bleeding all the same—and the surrounding skin was red and raw. Huffing out his breath with irritation, he turned the tap warmer and scrubbed his face. Clearly, the dream had upset him, and he despised not being able to rein in that particular emotion. He understood why some men took to drinking as a way to blot out these thoughts and alter such moods, but all he wanted was a cigarette, and desperately. Instead, he peeled off his clothes, let them fall where they landed, and stepped into the shower.

The shower was hot, but he wanted it hotter, and he kept twisting the knob by tiny increments until the heat was almost intolerable and his skin turned lobster red and the steam made his head swim. But he stood with his head beneath the spray, feeling the hot water flatten his curls and massage the tension from the muscles of his shoulders and back. It felt cleansing, almost, but no matter how long he stood there simmering, he couldn't shake the image of John dying on the ground outside of St Bart's, in the very spot he himself had once died.

When he couldn't take it anymore, this inaction, he twisted the knob hard to the right, killing the shower, and dried himself off with a towel. Then he redressed in his pyjamas, dressing gown, and slippers, flicked off the light switch, and stepped back into the darkened hallway. He noticed the soft lamplight now coming from the sitting room.

It was barely five in the morning, but John was awake, sitting on the edge of the sofa but with his head in his hands. The blanket was half twisted around his waist, half fallen to the floor. Sherlock moved silently, so John must have _felt_ him come into the room, because he lifted his head to see him. His eyes were still squinting, not quite accustomed to the light.

'Good morning,' Sherlock said, coming into the room.

'Mm,' John replied.

'I wake you?'

John shrugged, so yes, he had. 'Did you even bother to sleep?'

Sherlock didn't want to voice the dream, so he forced a casual tone and offered a shrug of his own. 'A bit,' he said. 'If you want to catch another hour or two, I'll just take my laptop—'

'No, I'm awake now.'

'Breakfast?'

'No.'

Sherlock frowned but turned away to hide it. He lifted his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown and settled himself into his armchair to scroll through the early morning news reports. From the corner of his eye, he watched John push himself to his feet and tug on his sleeves to cover his wrists. He didn't bother with the cane, not for simply crossing a room, but his left leg moved stiffly and caused him to limp all the same. He joined Sherlock, sitting across from him in his own armchair. For a while, nothing was said; all Sherlock heard were the passing engines of early commuters and his own thumbs tapping. The silence might have been companionable, as it had once been, if not for something unspoken between them, an unidentifiable stiffness in the air. Sherlock wished John would pick up a book or even yesterday's paper, or maybe rethink his answer about breakfast, but he just sat there, thinking about godknowswhat as he stared past Sherlock's left ear at the curtained windows and rubbed his leg. After a few minutes, Sherlock realised he was scrolling so quickly that he wasn't even processing the titles of the articles. He was distracted by the lack of distraction, which was John.

'You're bored.'

Caught off his guard, Sherlock looked up sharply but didn't reply. So John continued.

'With this.' He waved a hand in a way that might have indicated the flat but also could have meant the two of them.

'No . . .' he began.

'I get it. I do. I saw how you were with the West End case. You were, I don't know, on fire again.'

He didn't know about _on fire_. The case had been embarrassingly simple, once Sherlock had noted the smudge in the chorus boy's bronze facial makeup, which indicated fingertips but couldn't have been his own because of the placement/size/lack of makeup on the victim's own fingertips, makeup that he matched to a smudge on the handle of the deep walk-in wardrobe stuffed with dozens upon dozens of costumes, all on hangers and pressed front to back like sardines in can, all but for a short row of 1920s' flapper girl dresses hanging off askew wires, above which was a narrow trapdoor that the production manager swore she had never known existed, a door that led to a crawlspace into which the murderer—a Ms Erin Forrester, fellow chorus member—had gotten herself stuck nine hours before while trying to flee (well, crawl away from) the scene of the crime. In her hand she still held the murder weapon: a prop sceptre, made of ash, like a baseball bat, and stained with blood.

Yes, simple, but he had loved every moment of it, from snapping on the latex gloves, to deducing that the boy had a side job selling fish at Borough Market, to feeling Sally Donovan's eyes burning into the back of his head. It was the little things. But what he had loved above all was that John had been standing just off to the side, watching his every move, listening to his every word, and chiming in now and again with a question ('Fish?' and 'How do you know?' and 'Is there no other way into the room?'), and even answering Sherlock's rhetorical questions when no one else would ('Because there's no makeup on the fingertips.') It felt like it had before: like they were the only ones in the room and the mystery was theirs alone to solve, like Sherlock's job was to impress and John's was to _be_ impressed, and they were both performing admirably. Sherlock was having such fun at this dearly loved but long-missed game that he had even let out an exclamation of victory upon discovering Ms Forrester at the end of the beam on the torch Lestrade passed to him as he poked his head up and into the crawlspace, a resounding 'Ah-ha!', to which Ms Forrester had answered, 'Shit.'

But as they were leaving the scene and passing out of the Queen's Theatre, when it was just the two of them alone again, Sherlock's swollen euphoria had been instantly deflated when upon asking, 'What do you reckon, John? The Case of the Bloody Sceptre? Chorus Girl in the Crawlspace?', John had only grinned, falsely and fleetingly, and said nothing at all.

'You need a case,' John said. Absentmindedly, he tugged again on the ends of his sleeves, though his wrists were well covered.

'I'm perfectly capable of keeping myself occupied,' said Sherlock, though he yearned for a case with the Yard. Oh, how he yearned for one. 'We've enough to be getting on with at the moment.'

'We've reached a stalemate,' said John, 'in what we can do from here.'

It was true. They had begun a little over two weeks ago, working together to learn all they could about Moriarty's network, but already they had exhausted all online and hacked resources. There were only so many times Sherlock could recite the extent of his travels abroad tracking them, so many times they could review what they knew from the comfort of 221B, and Moriarty's people were well hidden. Lestrade consistently assured them both that the Yard had things well in hand, and Mycroft was never slow to remind Sherlock what his first priority should be: helping John.

Sherlock thought he had been.

'It won't be long, though, I expect,' John continued placidly. 'The Yard is supposed to clear your name in just a few hours. A press conference, Lestrade said, announcing that all charges and suspicions have officially been dropped.'

'Thrilling news.'

'Your website will start getting proper hits again, soon enough.'

'Oh, but I've been enjoying the message board lighting up with strangers telling me to go to hell. Or Wales.'

'You'll have the excuse you need to get away from here.' He waved his hand vaguely again. 'For a bit.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'You'll come of course.'

'Yes,' said John, though he was abruptly looking away. 'Sometimes. Not always. I have this to look after'—he gestured to his leg—'and . . .' He motioned toward his head.

'John—'

'Tea and toast, I think,' said John. He grunted, rising to his feet, and this time he took the cane with him into the kitchen where he made tea, not toast.

* * *

Standing outside of 221B and hunching his shoulders against the cold, Lestrade tucked the file in his armpit and reached for the bell: two dashes and a dot, then one dot, a dash, and two more dots.

It had taken him longer than he cared to admit to learn to transmit his initials in Morse code. He had practiced for days—tapping the steering wheel as he drove, clicking the mouse as he worked at the computer, patting his own elbow while standing in a lift—before he had learnt the full alphabet, each letter in isolation. Now the initials _GL_ came easily enough, but he'd be buggered if he had to recognise someone else's, or manage more than two letters at a time.

In his tactlessly sensible way, Sherlock had assured him that he was not expected to: 'At your age and level of intelligence, your proclivity for acquiring new skills has greatly diminished. Never you worry, detective inspector. This is for John's sake, and he already knows Morse. As do I. Obviously.'

Yes, it was for John's sake that the system had been devised. Lestrade had never seen it for himself, but according to Sherlock, in the short span of weeks since their reoccupation of their old flat, John had too often been unnerved by unannounced visitors. Well, _unnerved_ was Lestrade's word. Sherlock had used _vexed_. Whatever the right word was, it caused John a good deal of anxiety every time the buzzer sounded. There had been the occasional well-wishers and celebrity-sniffers, but also reporters in swarms and, too frequently, the malcontent hell-bent on making sure Sherlock knew he was not welcome in their city and that he deserved to be behind bars. Two bricks had made their soaring way through the sitting room windows, the first at midnight, two days before Christmas, which caused John to go into one of the worst panic attacks he'd known since his arrival at Baker Street; and the second at midday, which had managed to knock into Sherlock's shoulder while he sat typing at his laptop. 'They just don't know you like I know you, love,' said Mrs Hudson to Sherlock as they worked side by side, scrubbing away a particularly nasty spray-painted word that had been left on her front door. Lestrade could still see the shadow of it.

The unwelcome visitors more or less stopped once Lestrade had put the place on twenty-four hour visible surveillance and used cops to drive away the reporters. However, because there had been no active threat made against the occupants, the Yard permitted only a three-day surveillance and then recommended to Sherlock and John that they hire a private firm to manage the security of the property. John had refused faster than Sherlock (the boys down at the Yard couldn't cease the mutterings about Watson's 'trust issues'), but Lestrade took matters into his own hands. After all, the Yard was not his sole employer these days.

Still, John tensed whenever the buzzer sounded—whatever he was doing, he stilled, held his breath, and clenched jaw and fists. It was the uncertainty of not knowing who might be on the other side of the door, even when that someone had phoned ahead. And so Sherlock proposed that they simply wouldn't answer an 'uncoded buzzer'. That code, as it turned out, was Morse. And only a select few were told of it.

GL: two dashes and a dot, then one dot, a dash, and two more dots. Why did his have to be so complicated? Molly's was two dashes followed by four dots. Sherlock's was even simpler: three dots, four dots. But he'd tap out his entire name, if he was asked to, if doing so would ease John's unremitting disquiet, even just a little.

Two seconds later, Sherlock buzzed him up.

He found John in his usual chair and Sherlock standing in the centre of the room, arms akimbo and staring at him as though Lestrade had stayed out past curfew and he was waiting for an explanation.

'Mind if I sit?' asked Lestrade, even as he dragged a chair from the desk. He positioned it to face the two armchairs and waited for Sherlock to take a seat himself.

'Press conference ended three hours ago,' said Sherlock mildly.

'I take it you've been reading all the reports online,' said Lestrade.

'And my inbox crashed.'

'Yes, well. Sally said a few things she shouldn't have.'

'Nothing I wouldn't have said myself.'

'Nevertheless, the reaction of the press—'

'Was exactly what I had anticipated. Never a more predictable lot, journalists. Until they have a compelling reason not to, they'll paint me as the blackest of villains, and his story picks up right where it left off. People love a good fairy tale.'

Lestrade didn't have to ask to whom he referred. 'The _point_,' he said, 'is that you're a free man. As far as Scotland Yard is concerned, anyway. And also, a live one. Congratulations. You are once again officially recognised as being alive.' He smirked. 'The paperwork, I tell you.'

He knew for a fact that processing that paperwork had been deliberately slowed by certain someones occupying unspecific positions in the British government, and for one simple reason: a dead man could not be charged.

Neither Sherlock nor John returned the smile.

'There's more,' said Sherlock.

'Pardon?'

'I expected you would come after the press conference was over, but you weren't there to begin with. All reports make it clear that Sgt Donovan was the Yard's sole representative. The conference ended three hours and twenty minutes ago. Whatever you've been doing in the meantime is the reason for your delay, and judging by the damp on the hem of your trousers and the mud you've left in our doorway, I'd say you've been enjoying some of this fine outdoor weather. Not a lot of mud between here and the Yard though. Furthermore, your hands are patchy with a mild rash—you never did take too well to latex. You've been at a crime scene.'

'Do you never stop?'

'You're also carrying a rather thick file of information, which you would have left in your car unless you intended to leave it here. It's nothing to do with the conference, not a file like that. What's more, you've deliberately avoided looking directly at John since the moment you crossed the threshold. This is to do with him.'

Now Lestrade did look at John, guiltily, but John was watching Sherlock, his eyes unreadable. But his fingers had curled around a knee.

'Tell us what has happened.'

Lestrade had been hoping to ease into this, to set the tone of calm and assume an air of confidence and authority. Sherlock didn't allow him any of that. As ever, he had waved his wand of deduction and left Lestrade in nothing but his briefs, and now it was either sit there looking like a fool or continue with the show and confess all he knew and then some.

He caught himself shifting in his chair and rubbing his nose while he thought of a place to start, so he stopped himself. Sherlock might not put much stock into psychology, but he had a rather sharp knack for interpreting human behaviour.

'A couple things, then,' he began, 'that you should know. But first, listen: we're working on it. The _Yard_ is working on it. And we shouldn't jump to any unwarranted conclusions . . .'

'I'll decide what conclusions are warranted.'

Lestrade let that one go. 'Yesterday . . .' Oh god, he was about to make himself sound so damned incompetent. '. . . yesterday, we discovered that some of the evidence recovered from . . . the convent . . . has gone missing.'

At last, John's head came around, though his lips remained a tight, straight line.

'_Missing_,' Sherlock repeated, his tone bordering on disgust.

'What evidence?' asked John softly.

Lestrade wanted to hang himself. 'Three items. Your . . . that is, a pair of pants. The'—he swallowed, catching himself before saying _dog dish_—'water bowl, and the, um, metal cilice.'

Sherlock shot to his feet. '_Damn it, Lestrade!_'

'We're working on it, Sherlock! We'll find it, all of it. We'll find whoever took it. We'll make it right.'

With a scowl, Sherlock answered, 'I thought we agreed _not_ to jump to unwarranted conclusions.' He stepped away from the chair and started pacing. 'The Yard hasn't done _any_ of this right, so why would you start _now_?'

'That's entirely unfair!' Lestrade's voice boomed. He was now on his feet, too. 'I had _ten officers_ working against me, people I had known for years, men I _trusted_, sabotaging my _every_ move. Ten!'

'Eleven, evidently.' Sherlock snorted. 'At _least_.'

'We don't know that. No, Sherlock, don't look at me like that. We don't _know_ that it was someone at the Yard.'

'Precedent, Lestrade, is a _powerful_ indicator.'

'You work in facts. _Facts_. So let's talk facts. One: Stubbins told me _nine out of ten_. Pitts was the tenth. We have named _all ten_.'

'Two,' Sherlock countered, 'Everett Stubbins was a small man in a large organisation in which the players can't see each other. He knew nothing. Nothing important.'

'_Three_: he knew enough for them to try to shut him up.'

'Four: they _didn't _shut him up, and you've learnt nothing from him since they tried. Five: the evidence lockers are located in the Yard. _Six_: only Yard personnel have access to those lockers. It is highly unlikely that any outside individual could break into it without some _inside_ help.'

'You could. You _have_.'

'Yes, but I'm me.'

'Look. I'm not saying it _isn't_ someone at the Yard. Maybe it is, god forbid. But dammit, Sherlock, we _are_ sensitive to the possibility, the very real possibility, of infiltration. And even if we've been buggered again, that does _not_ make us incapable of handling this.'

'Who else knows?'

Lestrade released a huff of anger. 'Dryers discovered it. He told me, I told Gregson and Donovan.' He rubbed a hand against the back of his neck and turned slowly on the spot. 'Anderson knows, too.'

Sherlock sniffed. 'Of course he does. _Donovan_.'

'No,' said Lestrade. 'Kitty Riley.'

Silence fell over the room. Lestrade had just done the near impossible and rendered Sherlock Holmes speechless. Struggling to maintain a level tone, Lestrade proceeded to relate Donovan's story of what had transpired after the press conference when Ms Riley had cornered her outside the women's loo.

'I want to be there when you question her.'

'Not a good idea. She burns you in effigy every time she puts pen to paper. Let's not give her more fuel for the fire.'

'Oh please, what more can she do to me? I'll not just sit on my hands while she twiddles her thumbs and evades giving answers when she knows the identity of some bloody sod who pilfers instruments of torture!'

There was a sudden crash of glass. Both men jumped, then spun to look at John. Lestrade didn't need Sherlock's keenly deducing brain to work out what had just happened: John had gone for the water glass on the table beside his chair, but his hand had been shaking so badly he couldn't hold it. He knocked it clean off the table, and it shattered against the floorboards. Water spread in all directions.

'Jesus—' John said hoarsely. His face flushed, and he gripped one hand in the other to keep it from trembling. He was trying to get to his feet.

'No, no, it's fine, leave it,' said Sherlock, touching his shoulder with a light hand. He stepped over the puddle, angling for the kitchen.

'John, are you okay?' said Lestrade. 'I'll get you a new glass.'

'No. Don't.' John stood awkwardly over the broken glass, knees slightly bent as though he were about to walk away or fall back into the chair. But he did neither. He looked as though he didn't know what he should do.

Sherlock returned with a hand broom and dustpan, a fistful of kitchen paper, and the rubbish bin. 'I broke a beaker just the other day, so I've had practice,' he said with a smile at John as he crouched down and began sopping up the water with the kitchen paper.

'I can clean it, Sherlock,' said John.

'I'm half done already.'

John took a wavering step away from the mess, and another until he had crossed the room and lowered himself onto the sofa. He looked unaccountably exhausted, and not a little . . . unnerved. _Vexed_ came nowhere close. Lestrade didn't know if he could bear to finish saying what he had come here to say.

When Sherlock had finished cleaning and had removed all evidence of a mishap to the kitchen, he returned wearing an intentionally calmer demeanour; clearly, it wasn't for Lestrade's sake. He also bore another glass of water, which he delivered wordlessly to John, who took it in two hands and drank. Lestrade could hear his exhalations sounding in the glass as he was clearly trying to remain in control but looking furious with himself.

Giving John what privacy he could, Sherlock returned his attention to Lestrade, and when he spoke his voice was a deeper tone of bass. 'This crime scene you were at. Was it related to the _missing_ evidence?'

Shaking his head, Lestrade said, 'There's no direct connection, from what we've gathered so far. But'—he glanced briefly at John, then away and spoke more softly—'now may not be the best time.'

'Who died?' John asked gruffly, his voice echoing in the glass raised to his lips.

Lestrade relented. 'A man. We've not identified him yet.'

'Where?' asked Sherlock.

'Lower Clapton.' He headed Sherlock off at the pass. 'Team's already cleared the site and the body's on its way to the morgue. There's nothing left to see.'

Sherlock raised a sceptical eyebrow at him but asked, 'How did he die?'

'Initial assessment suggests asphyxiation. I'm going to Bart's later for the full report.'

'We're waiting for the punch line, inspector.'

'It's not conclusive yet, but'—his eyes flitted once more to John, then to the floorboards—'I think our perp is Darren Hirsch.'

He waited for the second glass to fall. It didn't.

After a silent spell, Sherlock said methodically, 'The victim was sexually assaulted.'

'Yes.'

'He had distinct scratch marks on his sides and hips.'

'Yes.'

'There are signs he had been homeless.'

'Yes. All that, yes.'

'I want to see the body.'

'No.'

'_Lestrade._'

Lestrade stood and began buttoning his coat, an indication that their conversation was over. 'I came here because you ought to know, and to put you on your guard. But I'm not involving you in this case. It's not an issue of pride, Sherlock,' he said in response to the look of affront, 'it's a matter of policy. You do not work for the Yard. And we don't consult . . . amateurs.' He shook his head, half in apology, half in self-derision. 'Things aren't what they once were, Sherlock. I'm sorry.'

'But you need—'

'I've brought you this,' said Lestrade, holding up the file for him to. 'I can't bring you onto cases anymore, but I also can't stop you from looking for them. So I'm trying to help out where I can.'

With that, he placed the file on top of the closed laptop on the desk, muttered another apology to John, and left.

Sherlock listened to his heavy footsteps travelling down the stairs, then he slowly crossed to the file, flipped it open, and scanned the first few pages. Mostly, it contained surveillance reports and intelligence on foreign spies and counter-government organisations abroad. Interesting. But perhaps not the most pressing matter at hand.

'He's given us this as a distraction,' he said.

'Yes,' said John, who was now standing behind him. He reached around, set down the glass, and grabbed the file from out of Sherlock's hands. 'I'll handle it. You go. Lestrade won't be there for a couple hours more. You'll have plenty of time to look at the body and wait for the report.'

'You don't want to come?'

'It's a big file. Might be something important. Best one of us got on it.'

He sat himself at the desk and opened the laptop to access his password-protected notes.

'I won't be long,' said Sherlock, grabbing his coat and scarf.

'Take your time.'

Sherlock stood a moment in the open doorway, but John was already engrossed in the file, his head slightly angled away. _Right then_, he thought, and closed the door firmly behind himself.


	4. Sam Jefferies

**CHAPTER 4: SAM JEFFERIES**

**FRIDAY, JANUARY 2, 2015**

Molly Hooper heard just three words—_Lestrade told me_—and let him straight in.

'I haven't even unbagged him yet,' she said.

'I'll help.'

She wasn't accustomed to having an assistant on these things. Or rather, she wasn't accustomed to _playing_ assistant, as before ten minutes had passed, Sherlock had essentially taken over the morgue. 'Hand me that magnifying glass,' he said to start, and before long, it was, 'Angle that light right here. No, _here_' and 'Hold this' and 'Write this down. Have you written it?' He was quick to identify the method of strangulation had been rope, not a belt, even before she had found a tiny sliver of fibre from a hemp rope embedded in a scratch on the neck, and also to declare that the bruising had occurred _post-_mortem, an assessment she agreed with, ruling out strangulation as the cause of death. A large gash in the back of the head was a more likely candidate.

Still, she had her own uses. The left ankle was clearly broken, as both could see, but it was she who first suggested that it had been the result of twisting, a hard clockwise wrench. He agreed that twisting was most likely, looking slightly put out that she had beaten him to the punch. She also noted that the bruising on the wrists, contrary to those on the neck, had occurred prior to death, to which he replied, 'You've gotten quicker, Molly.' Together, they observed some kind of thin, dried film on the lips and at the corner of his mouth, a faint pinkish-red colour, which both initially mistook for blood but upon closer inspection they saw that it certainly was not. That would be a matter for the lab to identify.

He still let her do all the procedural things required by both law and training, and he let her take care of the cutting and organ removal (with the occasional 'Budge over, Molly, I can't see') to determine the kind of internal damage the assailant had caused, but he took it upon himself to collect samples and put them in plastic bags to send to the lab. (She watched him closely, making sure he didn't take anything for himself.) They had never worked together in this way before, and it was highly unorthodox (Dr Torrence, who was on holiday in Majorca, would have had a coronary if he'd known), but Sherlock was keen, and Molly didn't hate it. It was rather nice, actually, having a little company while performing a post-mortem.

That wasn't to say that either of them was particularly enjoying the work. When Molly collected fluid and tissue samples from the area of assault, Sherlock turned away. It was on the pretext of re-examining the victim's torn shirt and jeans, and he talked the entire time, rattling off deductions about the way the man sat on trains and how he took his coffee as though he were a wind-up toy, but Molly recognised it for what it was: a way to divert other thoughts. He had managed the rest of it (the bashed up face, the bruises colouring back and torso, the signs of strangulation) with the same detachment and clinical curiosity he had always shown. But he paused and his breath faltered at the wrists, rubbed raw and red from the shoelace. He let her take samples from the slash marks at the hips. And he turned away from the evidence of rape. She understood. A little over two months ago, this had been John. No, Molly corrected herself. This only _might_ have been John. John had survived.

When they were finished and cleaned up, Molly completed the report and got the samples labelled and ready to send off to the lab. She wanted to have them back by the time Greg showed up, and she hoped that whatever the tests revealed would be useful to him. She knew he was stressed enough as it was, what with trying to track the men who had abducted John (a practically futile search, he had told her recently, until they got more to go on) and with the aftermath of a conspiracy ring at the Yard. His nearly every waking hour was devoted to some aspect of the job, and, though he never said as much, she got the sense that his sleeping hours were none too peaceful.

They had been seeing each other since November, but the reality was, they hadn't actually seen _much_ of each other. In fact, thinking of herself as a 'girlfriend' felt a little premature and presumptive, perhaps even a little juvenile. She didn't know for _sure_ that Greg saw her in such a light. With a pang, she knew that 'boyfriend' wasn't quite how she thought of him, either, not yet, not when they hadn't even kissed properly, just shy touches on the arm or sitting close together, hip to knee, on a park bench while they braved the cold and sipped coffees on the rare occasion her lunch breaks and his case lulls happened to coincide. Molly could count up on one hand the number of evenings they had spent together, just the two of them, that hadn't taken place in that very morgue. The thought depressed her, but she had no solutions. She didn't want to pressure or burden him, didn't want to seem overly eager or needy or ungenerous or any of those things she believed she had been guilty of in the past. She liked him, respected him, believed he was doing an important work. He just seemed . . . tired. And the more time that passed, the more tired he became.

But maybe, just maybe, this body represented the break in the case he needed. Maybe it would actually prove to be useful.

She had just crossed the last _t_ when she noticed that Sherlock's attention was once again on the body he was supposed to be zipping back into the bag. Instead, the bag was stretched wide so he could examine the deep scratches embedded in the hips. His attention had turned to them at last.

'Something else?' she asked.

He didn't answer, so she tried again.

'What are you looking for?'

'Something I must have missed.'

'Why do you think you missed anything?'

'Because something is not right.' He moved around to the other side of the table. His fingers curled into a claw-like position and dragged through the air, just above the marks, to recreate what he supposed had caused them. There were thirteen distinct scratches on one side, eleven on the other, indicating fingernails that had raked the skin multiple times. 'This mark here . . . It's different from the others. Longer, thinner. I don't believe it was from a fingernail. But it's not a blade either. The cut isn't clean enough for a blade.'

'Then what?'

'I don't know. Lestrade _presumes_ that this is the work of the Slash Man.'

'Isn't it?'

'It's not an _illogical_ assumption, given _some _of the evidence, but not a foregone conclusion until the DNA results confirm it.'

'It shouldn't be long.'

'But the differences. The _differences_, Molly. Prior victims reported the deep scratching, like this, the Slash Man's hallmark sign. I've seen some of that for myself. The fact that this man was homeless fits the profile of all known victims but John. Yet this is the first time one of the Slash Man's victims has been killed—no one ever died before. That's not all. According to reports, the Slash Man always stripped his victims bare before raping them, let them get cold; this man was still partially clothed. And the strangulation? That's new. The sodium hypochlorite—that's new too. If he's going to leave such obvious markers, why bother even _trying_ to destroy DNA evidence?'

'Do you mean that this wasn't him? A copycat, maybe?'

'Conceivable. But not likely. There are too many similarities. Not with his prior victims, but with John.'

She gasped a little and clutched the clipboard to her chest.

'The bleach. They poured bleach into John's wounds. The same thing happened to this man.' He walked up to the dead man's head, re-examining the bruising on the neck and collarbone. 'And they strangled John, too. Repeatedly. But the bruising here . . . Why strangle a man after he's dead?'

Having never considered the mind of a madman, she had no answer to give.

'These differences mean something,' he continued. 'Someone playing a game. And if this is a game, then _this_'—he gestured urgently at the whole body—'is a message. I need to decode it.'

Molly was at a loss. She had never been one to question Sherlock's reasoning, let alone his conclusions. But now, she wasn't so sure. To her, a dead body was message enough. In any case, she just wanted this one to be simple, straight-forward, easily cracked. But Sherlock stood with his hands on his hips, glaring down in annoyance at the exposed corpse of a man who had been beaten, raped, and murdered within the past twenty-four hours as if it were still holding something back.

'Are you okay?' she asked delicately.

'What? Me? I'm fine, Molly.'

'Is John?'

He looked up sharply. 'Why shouldn't he be?'

'It's just . . . with all this.' Her eyes flitted to the body. 'I notice he didn't come with you today. Sorry, it's not my business. I'll just, you know'—she indicated the report and samples in her hand—'be back in a tick.'

She made a quick job of the delivery and ensured that the lab technicians saw that everything had been marked as urgent. By the time she returned to the morgue, Sherlock had zipped the body bag and was sitting on a chair beside it, fingers drumming the silver table a little impatiently.

The door had only just swung shut behind her when he said, 'Not good.'

She halted. 'Sorry?' Something _she _had done?

'John.' He rolled his shoulders a little as though to release some building tension. 'He's not good.'

'Oh.' Molly stood awkwardly for a moment, staring at him, cleaning one fingernail with another. For the first time since he had arrived, he looked tired, though she doubted that a good night's sleep could solve this kind of tired. It was the kind of enervation that came from not knowing what to do, and she had never known him to be in such a state. She crossed the room to another rolling operator chair and sat herself on the edge of it. 'Not good how?' she asked gently.

His face was like stone and his eyes just as hard. Had he been looking her, she might have felt the need to back away. As it was, however, he was looking at the floor, his jaw hard-set. And Molly knew: he was worried about John and didn't know how to say it, didn't even know if he should.

'Maybe just one thing,' she suggested, 'that's not so good.'

For a long moment, she thought he wouldn't or couldn't answer. Then, 'There isn't just _one _thing. It's a thousand things, all tangled together in a wretched skein. Everything hurts. All the time. Everything.'

'You mean . . .'

'Every part of him. Skin, muscle, bone, head to foot, real pains and imagined ones, it's all the same, there's no point in drawing lines. And what's to be done? His meds work only when he takes them, when he doesn't _refuse_ to take them, and even then the pain is only dulled. I think he prefers to hurt. When he doesn't, he thinks about . . . things. So it's a choice. He just _hurts_, all day long, all through the night. He can't get away from any of it.'

'Do you talk to him about it? Getting help, I mean.'

In answer, he stared even harder at the floor, as though his eyes alone could bore holes through it. She watched him bring his hands together, to clasp them, she thought, but instead he started scratching the skin there. Slowly.

'If he'll listen to anyone about it, Sherlock, it's you.'

He laughed shortly, bitterly.

'Really, he will. He trusts you.'

'He can't _stand_ me.'

Whatever she had expected him to say in response—of John's physical condition or mental health or handling of grief—she had not expected that. 'I'm sure that's not true.'

'It's true.'

The stone cracked and the mask slipped, just a fraction, and Molly saw the expression of deepest self-loathing before the stone settled again.

'I don't blame him. I'm no good for him.'

'Has he _said_—?'

'He doesn't have to. I walk into a room and he holds his breath. That is, if he doesn't find some reason to leave. He'll spend an hour in the bathroom with the shower running, or long hours in his bedroom, just to stay away from me. We take meals together, out of custom or because Mrs Hudson has prepared it, but he'll hardly say a word, and when we're working, it's all business. This morning he sat with me only long enough to tell me I needed to get out of the flat more but that he wouldn't come with me, and when I did leave he told me not to hurry back. He's poorly in every way one can imagine, but he doesn't want my help, or anyone's. He never smiles, not unless he has to, and then it's a chore and fades quickly. I haven't heard him laugh since . . . I don't ever hear him laugh. Not that he has anything to laugh about these days.' He sighed out a great breath. 'I don't know what's going on _up here_.' He tapped a fingernail roughly into his temple. 'I used to be able to tell, but now it's all walls.'

'He's going through a lot,' said Molly. She knew the weakness of the hackneyed phrase the moment it left her lips, and Sherlock scowled at it. 'He needs time.'

'He needs _her_. He has me instead.'

She answered shyly, 'He needs you, too, Sherlock.'

Again, he looked disgusted by her attempt at consolation and answered, 'Yes, to find them. And I will. I swear to god I will. And once I have . . . That'll be that.'

She was startled by how alarmed she felt on his behalf. 'That'll be what?'

'He'll have no reason to stay.'

He was suddenly on his feet. The heart-to-heart was over.

'Text me the details, once the results are in. I want confirmation that this is the Slash Man we're dealing with, and I need the identity of the vic—'

At that moment, the door to the morgue swung inward, emitting Greg Lestrade. Molly shot to her feet, already smiling and wondering a little foolishly how her hair looked. But the smile slipped a little when she saw how Greg's eyes skipped right past her and narrowed in aggravation at the sight of Sherlock Holmes.

He made her no greeting but said instead to Sherlock, 'What the bloody hell are _you_ doing here?'

'Afternoon, Lestrade,' said Sherlock mildly.

'You told him to come,' said Molly, but she was suddenly uncertain. 'Didn't you?'

'Like hell I did.'

'You didn't really expect me to stay away,' said Sherlock. 'Not on a case like this.'

'Jesus.' Lestrade pinched the bridge of his knows and screwed up his eyes as though he had a headache.

'Sorry, Greg,' Molly said, contrite. It hadn't even crossed her mind that letting Sherlock in wouldn't be all right.

'Don't be. He knew what he was doing.' He dropped his hand to his side. 'All right then. Fine. Let's have it. What did you find?'

'Nothing of importance,' said Sherlock. His tone was mild, but his expression could have shattered glass. He was fitting his scarf around his neck.

'Oh, come on now, don't be like that.'

Sherlock yanked indignantly on the scarf, almost choking himself, and swung on Greg. 'There was _nothing_. Nothing Molly wouldn't have found on her own. You should have had me at the _crime scene_.'

'You _know_ I can't. Not anymore.'

'What, because of the _newspapers_? Afraid of what the _public_ might think?'

She saw Greg control an eye roll. 'You may not care about public opinion, but the Yard does. But even _that_ doesn't matter when it comes down to it. I've already told you—it's policy. It's out of my hands!'

'Policy never bothered you before. What you cared about were results.'

'Things aren't like they were _before_. They're different.'

'Yes,' Sherlock agreed. 'The stakes are _higher_, and you need me now more than ever.'

Greg stepped forward a few paces. His body language beseeched Sherlock to listen to reason. 'I _want _you there working cases with me. _This_ case. I do! I just—' He shook his head in frustration. 'You can't, Sherlock.'

Sherlock rolled his shoulders into his coat. His eyes burned with anger and his movements were jerky as he pulled on his gloves. Molly felt miserable watching him. She wished something would relieve the awful tension in the room—that Sherlock would understand or that Lestrade would relent—but neither man yielded any ground.

As he stalked toward the exit, Sherlock, without sparing another glance on either of them, said, 'I'm on this case, inspector. Find a way to make it right with the Yard.' Then he threw the double doors wide and disappeared.

Alone with each other now, Lestrade groaned and dropped his head into his hands. 'God, what am I doing?'

Molly came closer and placed a tentative hand on his upper arm, rubbing gently. She was on the cusp of excusing Sherlock's behaviour by relating his concern over John, but she believed that the things he had told her had been spoken in confidence, and she knew it wasn't her place to pass them along. Instead, she said, 'It's my fault. I shouldn't have let him help me with the autopsy.'

Straightening, and placing a hand over hers, he tried to smile. '_Not _your fault. I told Sherlock he wasn't to be involved, just a couple of hours ago. But when does he ever do what people tell him? I shouldn't have been so surprised to see him here.' He acknowledged the body in the bag with a nod of his head and dropped his hand; she followed suit. 'So. He really didn't find anything?'

Regretfully, she shook her head no. 'He thought there might have been some sort of _message_ on the corpse, but no, nothing.'

'When do you expect the lab work to be done?'

'It'll be a couple hours. I only just dropped off the samples.'

'Bad timing, I guess.' He grinned apologetically.

'Maybe not so bad,' she said, matching his smile. Again, she touched his arm, teasingly, rubbing the fabric between two fingers and wishing they had reached a point where they could be more familiar with each other. But she felt foolish and stopped. 'If you need to wait for the results, we could, I don't know, grab an early dinner?'

'I'd like that,' he said. 'I can't tell you how much. But . . .' He winced. 'I can't. I think we may have an identity on the victim. Someone recognised a photograph and, well, I need to go talk to the family.'

Her smile dimmed as she failed to hide her disappointment.

'Damn. I'm always doing this, aren't I?'

'It's fine,' she said. 'You've got an important job.'

'We've all got important jobs,' he said. 'I don't want you to think I'm hiding behind mine.'

'I don't.'

'Things will let up.' He tucked a loose strand behind her ear. 'Soon. I promise.'

She nodded and inclined her head slightly toward his hand, but she wasn't greatly encouraged. Their plans always seemed to exist in the realm of _soon_ and _someday_.

His phone went off, and he sighed out his disappointment and dropped his hand. 'Excuse me,' he murmured, reaching inside his pocket. 'Lestrade,' he said into his phone. Molly couldn't make out the words on the other line, but the voice sounded like Donovan's. 'Yes. Yes, good. Good. I'm on my way.'

Dropping the mobile back inside his pocket, he said helplessly, 'I have to go.'

'Good news, is it?' She tried not to sound too hopeful.

'Maybe. Three separate people identified our victim's photograph.'

'Who is he?'

'Sam Jefferies.' He spelled it for her, for the report. 'I'll bring the family in to positively ID the body later today. You'll still be here?'

She inserted a light-hearted laugh. 'Always.'

His returned smile was a little pained. 'Great. Then . . . I'll see you then.'

He squeezed her hand lightly and turned to go. By the time the door had swung closed her smile was gone. Shaking away the negative thoughts, she pulled out her own mobile and began to text.

_Sam Jefferies, presumably.  
Not yet confirmed. No word  
yet on the perp._

A moment later, the text alert sounded on her mobile.

_Thank you.  
SH_

* * *

John closed the bathroom door, locked it, and set the gun beside the sink. Then he leant the cane against the wall between toilet and bath, propped himself against the wall with one arm, and lowered his zip as he stood over the bowl. Nothing happened.

'Stop it, stop it, don't be ridiculous,' he coaxed himself under his breath. 'Just go. Just go.'

But he couldn't. He felt the pressure, the _need_ to urinate. The muscles in his body were tensed and his bladder felt like it was being squeezed from all directions, but he couldn't relax enough to release. _Breathe_, he told himself, resting his forehead into the arm now pressed against the wall. But every time he began to relax, even just a little, he shivered, and the muscles seized up again and prevented anything from happening.

'Damn it,' he said, still in little more than a whisper. Every damn time.

He zipped his flies back up, lowered the lid, and sat. He commanded himself to breathe again, slow breaths in, slow breaths out, but the sound of it made him want to scream. Since the convent, he couldn't stand silence punctuated only by the sound of his own miserable breathing. So he reached for the knob on the shower and twisted, letting the water run cold as it slapped noisily against the bottom of the bath. It would do.

Lestrade's visit had unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Things had been going . . . all right. He had begun to feel stable, more in control of his thoughts and emotions than he had since the whole thing started. Not _good_. God no, far from good. But he had been managing the intrusive images well enough without having to rely on Sherlock to bring him back from the brink of insanity every few hours. And yes, he still had nightmares, though not the kind that brought Sherlock running. Then Lestrade had mentioned the underwear. The dish. The cilice. His mouth had run dry. A frigid, invisible hand clutched at his chest, squeezed, stole his breath. Moran's voice drifted into the room, muffled and distant-sounding at first, but as Lestrade and Sherlock continued to argue and his thirst became unbearable, the words had grown louder, clearer, until it was a voice booming in his skull: _Just a dog. Just a dog. Just a dog._

And the glass shattered.

With the crash, Moran's voice disappeared too. He realised he was sweating, shaking, and he felt like he might throw up. _You're fine, you're fine, you're fine_, he repeated in his head, trying to drown out the echo. But he was unable to convince himself it was true; he was barely able to push himself from the chair. He was humiliated. Jesus, the way Lestrade had looked at him, with such concern, regret, _pity_. Sherlock was already in the kitchen, making things right. John had to move, just to prove that he could.

He didn't want to consider why _those_ three items had been stolen from evidence. Plenty of things had been recovered from the basement of the abandoned convent: a carbon-steel knife, steel pliers, brass knuckles, a lighter, bottles of chemicals, his wristwatch, shoes, socks, trousers, vest, shirt, coat, leather belt. . . . Even the taser had been found on the grounds of the convent. All were now in police storage lockers, labelled as evidence for the open criminal case, and under lock and key. All but the scalpel. Moran must have had that on him when he fled. But _those_ three items . . . he didn't want to consider them. But he knew. Those were the tools they had used to break him. Sexual degradation, animalistic shaming, and unrelenting pain. All three had ravaged his body, spoilt his mind, and left him a whimpering mess of a man.

And if _John _knew it, Sherlock surely did.

'You bastard, you miserable bastard,' he said to himself between arduous breaths.

He despised himself. For feeling so weak. For feeling trapped inside so damaged a body, a body that would forever carry the marks of his captivity, the reminders of his loss. He hated how the mere memories reawakened physical pain in every scar, burned open every wound. He felt it now, and in distress, he pushed off his slippers and socks, set a shaving mirror on the floor, and held his right foot over the glass.

He half expected to see three lines of blood at the ball, arch, and heel. Instead, he saw three parallel scars, slightly raised pink strokes of pinched, perfectly sealed new skin. When he walked, however, no matter what he wore on his feet, he could still feel the pressure of tender skin threatening to split beneath his weight. As a doctor, he knew it was an irrational fear; but it was one he was unable to shake.

Seeing that the skin of both feet was still intact, he hitched up his left trouser leg and ran a finger across the stab wound in his calf. There were mornings when he woke up convinced that the tip of the scalpel had broken off and lodged itself there: he could still feel the sharp blade deep inside the muscle tissue. But this, too, was a ridiculous notion, as his brain should have been able to figure out. Had the blade really broken off in his leg, Moran would not have been able to leave other marks.

Working his way higher up the leg, he came to the puckered scar of a bullet wound, deep purple and ugly. He was no longer wearing the wrappings because the skin had sealed and infection was no longer a concern. However, the bullet had grazed the bone, and the muscle damage still caused him pain when he walked, or even when he didn't walk but left his leg too long inert. He had missed his last two therapy sessions intended to strengthen it. To the physical therapist, he had lied and said he was going on holiday, and to Sherlock he had lied and said the _therapist_ was on holiday. He was fairly sure Sherlock had seen right through him, but he hadn't called his bluff, only taken it upon himself to refill his meds.

On the other leg, he examined burn marks and minor cuts up to the knee, but when he came to the first signs of mangled skin, evidence of flesh torn apart by the cilice, he let the trouser legs fall again, covering it all up. He already knew what it looked like, the massive scarring that covered both legs, knee to crotch. He sure as hell knew what it had felt like, wearing the cilice, one leg at a time, how the barbs sank in, how they twisted and pulled and ripped tiny gashes through his flesh, even before being viciously wrenched away. How many times, he had no recollection. Too many. The hideous scarring was testimony to that.

John knew it wasn't over. He knew Moran was still out there, as was that _woman_, and he knew that they had not intended for him to survive. It was the reality of his every waking moment; it plagued him even while he slept. But Lestrade's report of a murdered man, and of the disappearance of those three pieces of evidence, had sharpened that reality.

He couldn't fall to pieces. Not now. Not when things were happening again. He should be out there with Sherlock, not holed up in a bathroom. He knew it the moment Sherlock had walked out the door, but he had been unable to summon the strength—the courage—to call him back. And he hated himself for that, too. Once he had been the whetstone against which Sherlock sharpened his intellectual flint; now he was the millstone hanging around his neck. He wasn't recovering the way Sherlock needed him to. Mentally, emotionally, he was just too unstable. Physically, he was weak, sleeping poorly and always tired, still taking pain meds, still relying on a cane. Of course Sherlock would be frustrated, being trapped in a flat night and day with him. When John had told him to, he had practically run out the front door.

If he didn't straighten himself out, Sherlock would eventually become bored with him, and leave. That's just who he was.

And oh god, what would he do if Sherlock left? He'd spent more than three years in a larger, more dangerous, more stimulating world. And now he was . . . _caretaking_.

_Just a dog. Just a dog. Just a—_

Stop!

He dropped his fists down on his thighs, and a burst of anger erupted from his throat, echoing loudly in that small, lonely space.

At the same moment, the doorbell sounded, a rapid buzzing: three dots, followed by four dots. _SH_. The front door opened.

John put one hand on the edge of the sink and pushed himself upright. Once he'd steadied, he was recalled to his purpose in coming into this bathroom in the first place. He lifted the toilet seat and tried again. This time, after a very concerted effort to relax (he heard Sherlock's footsteps ascending the staircase), he was finally able to piss.

Next minute, he opened the bathroom door, passed through the kitchen with his cane, and found Sherlock standing in the centre of the sitting room, staring at the open file John had left by his laptop. Despite his promise to read through the whole thing, he had lost interest quickly. It was just page after page of foreign names attached to catalogued sightings in cities he'd never heard of; lists and lists of invoices for illegal contraband—weapons, drugs, precious metals, computer equipment—being bought and sold and smuggled across borders; coded names, coded operations, coded codes. And not once, in all those thousands of words, did he ever come across the name Sebastian Moran, or even his codename, LANCE.

Maybe Sherlock could make something more of it.

John could not account for the feeling of relief that swept through him at the sight of Sherlock now, nor could he reconcile it with the anger that flooded him in the same moment—that he should be so dependent on the man for his wellbeing! He was a grown man; he shouldn't have such a strong, visceral reaction to Sherlock's mere presence. He shouldn't still feel impelled to touch him, just to verify that he was real, a thing he seldom allowed himself to do.

He knew he should ask about the morgue. What had he learned, what would he do next, and could he come along? But his throat was constricted with emotion, and his eyes burned with shame.

In the end, he could say nothing. Instead, he nodded to Sherlock, stiffly and coldly, and went to his bedroom, leaving Sherlock standing in the middle of the sitting room all alone, staring after him in bewilderment.


	5. Rock-a-Bye

**CHAPTER 5: ROCK-A-BYE**

**SATURDAY, JANUARY 3, 2015**

Lestrade called an entire day later to confirm the identity of the victim: thirty-nine-year-old Sam Leonard Jefferies of Hackney, former RAMC combat medical technician. According to his family, he had not adjusted well to civilian life upon his return from Afghanistan. He had worked as a paramedic but was sacked after a short six months after he refused to treat an injured Muslim and refused sensitivity training and other psychological counselling. Having snubbed all offers of help from family and friends, Jefferies was soon unable to pay rent, which landed him on the streets where he had been for more than three years.

'And the assailant?' said Sherlock into the phone.

A controlled sigh. 'Inconclusive. The swimming pool stuff—'

'Sodium hypochlorite.'

'Yeah, that. It did its job. Any possible DNA evidence leftover from bodily fluids has been destroyed.'

'Contaminated. The PCR analysis will have been rendered unusable.'

'Right. That. And all hairs and skin particles match that of the victim, not the perp.'

Sherlock grunted, but whether in annoyance or acknowledgement, it was difficult to tell. 'Cause of death? I'm guessing it was _not_ asphyxiation?'

'Cerebral haemorrhage. Poor sod sustained a massive blow to the back of the head. Cracked the skull pretty badly. Possibly from hitting the ground, or being driven into it, or the perp used a large, blunt object. But yeah. That's what did it.'

'Brute force. Inelegant. Uninspired.'

'What's that?'

'Nothing. Go on.'

'That's all I've got at the moment—'

'Yes. Fine.'

'You and John should—'

'Ms Riley. Did you _crack_ her?'

A sigh from the other end of the phone.

'Thought not.'

'Sherlock—'

Sherlock ended the call and looked out the window. Though still mid-afternoon, there was less than an hour of January daylight left in the sky. 'The _police_,' he said with disdain, 'are being as useless as ever. I need to see the crime scene for myself. John, I think it's time we . . .'

His mind was already seven steps ahead of his tongue, calculating how long it would take to get to Lower Clapton and how many minutes he'd have to look around before the sun disappeared entirely. He had entirely skipped over the part where he ascertained whether John was even in the room before beginning to speak. As it turned out, he was not, and Sherlock was talking to himself.

That hadn't happened in . . . years.

Stepping out onto the landing, he shouted up the stairs. 'John!'

A moment later, the bedroom door whined opened and John shuffled to the top of the stair, his hand on the wall in lieu of the cane. There were no signs that he had been sleeping: his eyes were bright and alert, his hair flat, clothing unrumpled, feet slippered. But then, what else might he have been doing? John's room was sparsely furnished—a seldom-used bed, a headboard that served also as a bedside table and bookshelf (bare), a four-drawer dresser, and a desk—and he kept little else besides clothing and shoes up there. His laptop and medical books were all in the sitting room. From what Sherlock could ascertain, John had been doing nothing at all in his room. Just thinking.

About what?

'Well?' asked John.

Sherlock realised he'd been standing mute at the foot of the stair while his thoughts had taken a detour from their original purpose. That distraction would have to wait.

'I'm going to the crime scene while it's still light. Coming?' He didn't dare to hope and kept his tone neutral.

'Does Lestrade know you're doing this?'

'No.'

They held one another's stares for another long breath.

'Let me get my shoes.'

* * *

The cab ride to Lower Clapton from Baker Street took twenty-six minutes. During the drive, Sherlock filled John in on Mr Jefferies and what little he had learnt at Bart's and from Lestrade, who, according to Sherlock, was being more unreasonable than usual of late. Meanwhile, John listened intently, watching the driver warily through the rear-view mirror, one hand poised near the door handle, the other squeezing the grip of his cane like a stress toy. Sherlock was pretty sure John had memorised the cab number before climbing inside, which, strictly speaking, hadn't been necessary. Sherlock had taken note himself.

'What does it mean?' asked John when he was finished. 'All these homeless men. Not only Jefferies and Hugh Freemont, but Pete and Lex, too.' Sherlock noted that he omitted Darren Hirsch but drew no attention to that.

'I don't know. Nor do I yet know what to make of the pattern of military history—the two overlap, though not perfectly. Freemont didn't have any military history; instead, he was the victim of two very unclever moles from the Yard. Not part of Moran's plot, just a consequence of it. Vander Maten, well, he was neither homeless nor military. It would seem . . .' He let the thought play out in his head first, to see if he was right.

'What?'

'Think about it, John. The Slash Man went after the homeless. But each man who was a former soldier—whether victim or perpetrator—was ostensibly selected by Sebastian Moran himself. His three henchmen, _including_ the Slash Man, all had military history in addition to being displaced, that is, homeless. Everett Stubbins, too, was a military man, wasn't he, before he became a cop. And, of course, there's you.'

'I think he had a rather different reason for going after me,' said John tensely.

Sherlock nodded, though a little dismissively. 'Until the pattern becomes clearer, I'll not rule out any data points. Maybe Jefferies' combat service is relevant, maybe not. If it _is_, then it seems highly probable that this is not _merely_ the work of the Slash Man, but that Darren Hirsch is still in the employ of one Sebas—'

'Stop saying the name,' John said quietly. But he cleared his throat to hide his discomfort and urged the conversation onward so as to not give Sherlock a chance to respond to it. 'So you think Jefferies was . . . _selected_ . . . by him . . . but Daz is the one who did the deed?'

'Maybe. Or Darren Hirsch's . . . _employer_ may have had a direct hand in the murder or in the . . . assault.' He was now picking his words more carefully. 'Or both. He's certainly capable of both. As you know.'

'Yes.' John cleared his throat again and paid extra attention to the cars zipping by on his right.

'Though, as I understand'—here he treaded very carefully indeed—'the Slash Man was the primary offender when it came to . . .'

'Mm.' John offered only a grunt to verify Sherlock's supposition.

Sherlock switched tracks. The analytical side of him needed more information on that point; the part of him that was more sensitive to John's trauma insisted he not press it. 'But. Like I said. I didn't get much off the body. Hopefully, the crime scene will give us more.'

'Sun's nearly set. Will you have enough light to see by?'

'Hardly a concern. A setting sun—you'll forgive me the pun—casts evidence in a different light. What Lestrade couldn't see at midday may very well be revealed to _us_.'

They arrived in Lower Clapton with barely twenty minutes left of daylight. The sky was a darkening yellow streaked with purple from the partly overcast sky, and the buildings cast long shadows in the narrow street where Sherlock directed the cabbie to drop them off, making it seem as though night had already fallen.

'Come, John, we have to hurry,' he said, checking his watch.

He had already cobbled together enough information from Lestrade, Molly, the victim, and the reports in the paper to have deduced the exact location where the body had been found. Down the street and to the north lay a stretch of lawn leading to a park barely large enough to give even a small dog a decent walk. Large trees and bushes had hidden the body from passing vehicles and most passers-by who skirted the park on the perimeter, but otherwise it had been in plain sight of the path cutting through the heart of the park. Sherlock hurried there now. John laboured to keep up, a few steps behind. Sherlock could hear him huffing, and if they weren't rapidly losing daylight, he'd slow; but John wasn't complaining or insisting they take things at a slower pace, so he pressed them onward.

They reached the park and crossed to the stretch of grass where Mr Jefferies had been found. Sherlock turned in place, eyes raking the frozen blades, darting to trees and bushes. He dug out his phone and began snapping photo after photo, in case the dark overwhelmed them too quickly. They could always return in the morning, but already he was piqued that he stood there a day too late. Who knew what evidence would be utterly destroyed given another ten hours or more?

'You're sure this is where they dumped him?' John asked, shivering a little in the cold, his breath rising as fog. He was also turning in place, more slowly. Sherlock noticed the slight crease in John's coat; he had brought his gun.

'Of course, I'm sure,' he said. 'What do you make of it, John?' Then he registered what John had said. 'Wait. _Dumped_. Why did you say _dumped?_'

John looked suddenly doubtful of himself. 'Molly said he'd been dead almost twelve hours, didn't she?'

'Yes.'

'But he was found at noon.'

'Yes.'

John nodded to the path. 'Not a soul in the park all morning?'

'Yes. Yes, of course. Sam Jefferies wasn't killed here at all. They murdered him somewhere else, held the body for approximately twelve hours, and then left it here for someone to find. The questions, then: When did they snatch him?'

'And where?'

'And why Sam Jefferies? And why wait twelve hours to dump the body in the middle of the day when they could have more easily disposed of him at night?'

'But no one saw him being dumped,' said John. 'You'd think that _somebody_ would have noticed a dead man being dragged to the middle of a park. Bodies don't just fall out of the sky.'

'No. No, they don't . . .' Sherlock slowly turned his head skyward. 'But there's not a lot of sky up there to fall _from_.'

The air above them was crisscrossed with the long, bare arms of a horse chestnut tree. While Sherlock and John stood in the branches' mottled shadow, the setting sun struck something high above their heads, illuminating it by contrast: something white against the dark brown bark.

'John, do you see that?'

'What is that? A shoe?'

'My guess'—a slow, unstoppable smile began to spread and enliven his face—'is a white trainer.' Instantly, he began yanking at the fingers of his gloves, and he pushed his mobile into John's hands. 'Hold this.' He shoved the gloves into the pockets of his Belstaff coat.

'You're going to _climb?_ Those branches are ten metres up!'

'Nine. And we need that shoe. I'm tall, John, but I'm not _that_ tall. Climbing seems to be the best solution.'

'We can, I don't know, _throw_ things at it.'

'There may be more up there to see than just a shoe.'

He proceeded to the base of the tree, walked around the trunk to get the measure of it and chart a path, then placed his bare hands on the cold bark. He gripped a lower branch and set his foot on a knot, hoisting himself up to the first branch, and began to climb.

'I expect I'm not the first,' he called out as he went. 'This tree is quite suitable for climbing.'

'You look like an overgrown child.'

Sherlock smiled. 'What do you think, John? Why is there a shoe in the tree?'

'Someone could have tossed it there.'

Huff. Grunt. Left hand here, right foot there. 'Maybe. Or . . . ?' he prompted.

'Or? Or, I don't know . . . left it there?'

'Getting warmer.' Sherlock pulled himself upright onto a lower branch and, cat-like, worked his way around and up the trunk like it was a twisted ladder until he stood on the same branch as the shoe. Using a higher branch for balance, he sidestepped his way closer.

'Keep talking, would you?'

He noted, to his own surprise, the controlled note of distress in John's voice, and his eyes fell to the earth to see John shifting his weight in agitation as he stared up at him. Only then did it occur to him how John's seeing him standing precariously at any sort of height might be upsetting. It was getting darker, more difficult to see each other clearly, but evidently his voice dispelled some of that distance. So he kept talking.

'Yes, definitely a trainer,' he said, as much to work through the evidence as to distract John from his anxiety. 'And without laces.'

'What?' John was having trouble hearing him.

He raised his voice. 'No shoelace!'

'It was used to tie the man's hands.'

'Indeed. And its alternate use is exactly why this shoe is now in this tree.'

John didn't reply straight away, and Sherlock waited while he puzzled through it on his own first. He lowered himself to straddle the branch and leaned close to examine something else: a line of scored bark, as though from chafing.

At last, John answered. 'You mean, it came off Jefferies' foot . . . while he was still in the tree?'

'Precisely!'

'Fell off?'

'Hardly.'

'He took it off?'

'Oh no. He was dead. Quite dead.'

'Then . . . ?'

'This branch forks like a _Y_, but the diverging branches are still relatively close together, and the trainer is tucked at the angle where the two branches meet. Also'—he bounced a little on the branch to show its resilience—'the branch is sturdy enough to hold the weight of a grown man. _Two_ grown men. Jefferies and one other.'

'You're not saying he was killed in the tree!'

Sherlock chuckled. 'That _would_ be a feat. No, he was dead when he got here. Already assaulted, hands already bound. There are score marks in the wood just here, from a rope, I'd wager. He was _hoisted_ into the tree.'

'You mean, like a lynching?'

'The bruising on his neck indicated that he was dead before he was strangled.' As he spoke, Sherlock unwedged the shoe from the tree and turned it over and over in his hands, examining it as well as he could in the quickening dim. 'Mr Jefferies _did_ die in this park, John, as the sodium hypochlorite would suggest. They found the bottle in those bushes, and his wounds were treated with it after his assault but before his death. But he was also _dumped_, as you so rightly put it, twelve hours later. His attacker—or attackers, as must be the case—grabbed him, beat him, bound his hands with his own shoelace, raped him, and used the sodium hypochlorite to destroy the evidence. Then they swung a rope around this branch, fixed one end to Mr Jefferies, and hauled him up here. One of them must have climbed the tree, same as I did, to pull him onto the branch, and to keep him from falling off, he was balanced between these two branches at the fork. The gap is narrow, but not narrow enough to preclude him from eventually slipping through. Given enough time and a strong enough wind, it was inevitable.'

He leaned forward to see a short, jagged twig jutting out from the side of the thicker branch. Its tip looked to have been broken off and was red with what he supposed was blood. That accounted for the scratch mark that was neither fingernail nor knife.

Sherlock continued. 'When he slips, at midday, his foot gets caught here at the joint, twists and breaks the ankle. There was no indication of swelling because he was already long dead. But without the lace, the shoe is loose and the foot slips through. Mr Jefferies falls.'

'But why haul him into a tree?' John called.

'Haven't the faintest. Seems an unnecessary gimmick. _Someone_ was bound to lift his or her head to see a body in a tree, even if the police insist on practicing the art of short-sightedness. John, catch.' He tossed the shoe into the air; it arched, and John caught it in an outstretched hand.

'Coming down now, yeah?' John asked, working to control his tone so as not to sound anxious. But Sherlock heard it anyway.

'Coming down,' he agreed. He stood, grabbed hold of the higher branch, and began footing his way back to the trunk. Up this high, the remaining light from the set sun illuminated his path just enough for him to see by, though everything below him was dark.

'Sherlock.'

'On my way.'

'_Sherlock_.'

Casting his gaze down once again, he saw his mobile in John's hand, illuminated and throwing the scars of John's face into sharp relief.

'What is it?'

'Text.'

'From whom?'

John's head came up, away from the artificial glow, and his expression was lost in the shadow of the tree. 'From me.'

Sherlock swung himself down onto a lower branch, impatiently climbing downward in the dark, trusting his memory, not his vision, to find the next foothold, knot, or limb. Nearer the ground, he jumped and landed lightly on his feet.

'What do you mean, "from you"?' he asked, drawing nearer.

'My number. It's my number, Sherlock, my old one.' His voice was an exercise in control, but it was a thin lining sealing in the dread.

'Did you open it?'

In answer, John just handed him the mobile with the awaiting unread text. The screen displayed a series of digits, the number of John's lost phone. He hit the screen, opened the text message, and read four small words:

_The cradle will fall_.

Immediately, Sherlock looked around, casting his eyes to the shadows of bushes, to the path, and further to the street where headlights rolled by unassumingly.

'He knows we're here,' he said under his breath.

John breathed loudly through his nose, which Sherlock recognised as an effort to calm himself. 'Are we done here?' he asked softly. He was shifting his weight in agitation again, and Sherlock could see he was especially relying on the cane now. His leg must have been hurting him quite a lot.

He hesitated. Whoever had sent the text knew they were at the crime scene, they must. They knew he had found the shoe. Even now, there might have been eyes on them. How could he not pursue that? Track these people out, ferret them out, make them pay—?

John's knuckles were bloodless around the grip of his cane.

'We're done.' He dragged his eyes away from the shadows and to the shoe still in John's hand. 'I need to take a look at that back at the flat before I give it up tomorrow.'

'Give it up?'

'My gift to Lestrade.'

'Your bargaining chip, you mean.'

Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at John's characteristic incisiveness. It was too dark, however, to see whether John smiled in return. They turned in unison and headed back the way they had come, Sherlock casting his eyes to the shadows, searching, but he saw nothing. He dropped the phone back into his pocket, turning the text over and over again in his head.


	6. Relapse

**CHAPTER 6: RELAPSE**

**SATURDAY, JANUARY 3, 2015**

Though he hadn't been positive of Sebastian Moran's involvement in the death of Sam Jefferies before, he was damn sure now.

They didn't speak in the cab on the way back to the flat beyond giving the street address. John's momentary return to talkativeness had dissipated once again at the reception of the cryptic text from his old phone, and he retreated inside his own head. Sherlock did the same. There was much to think about.

Back on Baker Street, Sherlock took the shoe into his makeshift kitchen laboratory and to study it, taking particular satisfaction in dismantling the bloody thing simply because it was evidence Lestrade would rather have unhandled and intact. It wasn't the first time he'd disassembled a shoe in that kitchen, nor the first time he'd held back evidence. He had no good _reason_ to pull to pieces it, other than curiosity (and spite), and didn't expect to find anything beyond its rather predictable history as a homeless man's trainer . . . but one never knew.

Around seven, Mrs Hudson showed up with a dinner of shepherd's pie, which he declined, leaving her and John to themselves while he slid particulates from insole, midsole, and toe box onto slides and under his microscope. John must not have eaten much, because she ended up putting the greater portion of it in the fridge and reminding Sherlock to eat it before the meat turned. The telly came on afterwards, and Sherlock deliberately tuned it out. Sometime after that, she must have left, because the next time he re-engaged awareness of his surroundings, the flat was still and noiseless. He glanced at the clock on his mobile: 22.25. Perhaps that was enough for one night.

He stood, stretched his back and neck, and walked into the sitting room, prepared to summarise his findings to John (which amounted only to more traces of sodium hypochlorite), only to discover that John had fallen asleep already on the sofa, sitting upright. His head was slumped back against the cushions and faced the door. He looked wan and spent, as if sleep had taken him suddenly, so suddenly he hadn't even had time to consider removing his shoes or lying down properly. His laptop had slid halfway off his lap, and the screen had gone dark.

Briefly, Sherlock considered waking him so he could change and settle down properly, but John's breaths were coming long and deep, and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to disrupt this repose. He thought, instead, that he should just leave him as he was. Surely he wouldn't spend the whole night upright. It wasn't so terribly late, after all, and chances were he would eventually wake on his own, work the foreseeable kink out of his neck, and ready himself for bed like he did every night. In the end, however, Sherlock couldn't leave him like that. So he knelt down, carefully unlaced John's shoes, and eased them off his feet, watching John's face for any signs of waking or discomfort, but he saw none. Setting the shoes aside, he removed the laptop from his leg and placed it on the coffee table. He situated the pillow (which John kept on the floor during the day) against the armrest. Then he took John's shoulders and gently guided him down onto his preferred side. John grunted, but only a little, and his brow furrowed; but as his head settled into the pillow, he curled his arms into himself and stretched out his legs. Finally, Sherlock opened a heavy woven blanket and spread it over him, letting the toes of his socks stick out, as was John's new custom.

Turning away from the sofa, Sherlock flicked off the nearby lamp. With the darkening room, however, he noticed that, when setting it aside, he had nudged John's laptop awake, and the monitor glowed. He quickly angled it away from John's face and was on the verge of closing the screen when the open web page caught his attention, an article in _The Sun_, penned—predictably—by Kitty Riley: 'Public calls for Richard Brook's exhumation':

_Sussex – The January 2 statement from New Scotland Yard which exonerated Mr Sherlock Holmes, London, of any wrongdoing in the death of Mr Richard Brook, Sussex, has resulted in a public outcry, not only in London but in Sussex as well, where Brook's parents, Roger and JoAnna Brook, have been forced to relive their son's tragic death._

_'Three years ago, I buried my only son,' says Mrs Brook. 'Today, they're telling me that it may not be my boy in the ground.'_

_Mr Brook adds, 'In all this time, the only comfort I've found is knowing that the man who put a bullet in my son's brain cracked his skull on the pavement and died. But it comes out that Sherlock Holmes is alive, and now I don't even have that.'_

_The Brooks are horrified to learn that Holmes denies ever having met their son and insists, instead, that the man he killed on the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital was a different person entirely. When asked whether they would give permission to exhume Richard's body, Mr Brook had some very choice words:_

_'I already identified his body once. I don't need a sodding scientist running a DNA test to tell me that's my son.'_

_'I hope everyone will just let my Richard rest in peace,' adds Mrs Brook. 'And I hope to God that Mr Holmes will be brought to justice. He should be made to pay for his horrendous crimes.'_

_For now, the public cry to exhume Richard Brook goes unanswered, and the Yard is taking no action to justify its problematic support of Sherlock Holmes. Holmes remains a free man, a suspect in the eye of the public, but a perilous blind spot to the Metropolitan Police._

Sherlock finished the article, scowling. Just more of Kitty Riley's shoddy journalism at work. But as he went to click the window shut, he saw that there were several more tabs open, for _The Guardian_, _The Daily Mail_, _The Independent_, _The Daily Telegraph_. Story after story about _him_, iterations of Kitty's work, and none of them favourable. Why was John reading this drivel?

He closed the laptop with a decisive _snap_, but John didn't even stir. Feeling suddenly weary himself, he retired to his own room and, without bothering to ready for bed, lay down.

* * *

But he couldn't sleep. There was too much to think about. So he lay there, blanket pulled up to his middle and his interlaced fingers resting atop it while he stared up at the black ceiling, waiting for the night to pass. Soon, he was lost in a labyrinth of thought where everywhere he turned he encountered a dead end. Frustrated, he retraced his steps, explored new avenues, allowed for more creative turns, and sought out untested paths, only to meet another wall or impasse.

So lost was he within this tortuous labyrinth that he didn't even notice when John came into the room until the door slammed closed behind him.

Sherlock bolted upright and twisted his head so quickly he cricked his neck. All he could see was the dark outline of John's figure, leaning against the door.

'John?'

But all he heard was panting: short, rapid puffs of air, inhaled, exhaled. Sherlock reached across the bed to the lamp on the nightstand. When the bulb burst into light, he winced against it, but John didn't move at all. He stood with his back against the door and his head crooked, as though listening for noises from the front of the flat, and his face shone with sweat. In both hands, he held his SIG. It was pointed at the floor but ready to be engaged.

'John, what—?'

'We've been breached. They knew we were here, and they're coming.'

Sherlock must have been more tired than he thought: John's words were making no sense to him. He rubbed his eyes, trying to adjust to the light and clear his brain. He listened for any sound beyond the door, but the flat seemed still as death.

'Who's coming?' he asked.

'The defences won't hold. Take them out the back. I'll cover you.'

Sherlock slowly pulled back the covers and sat on the edge of the mattress. He leaned forward, studying John carefully. His stance was military, his shoulders square, his hold on the gun certain and familiar. But his eyes were glazed over, unfocused. He was . . . asleep.

This was new.

And Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how to handle it.

John's breath came in uneven gasps, as though he'd just run a mile. 'The line was supposed to hold. It didn't hold. It didn't hold. Someone ratted us out. We've been breached.'

'John . . .'

'Shh! They'll hear! Quickly now, move, move, out the back. It isn't safe here.'

'You're safe, John.'

But unlike usual, his words failed to penetrate John's subconscious mind. Suddenly, John dropped to his knees and covered his head with both arms, pointing the pistol at the ceiling. He turned his head and spit, as though to clear his mouth of dust and falling debris from an explosion that had just rocked the air above and the earth below. Sherlock was on his feet now, but he hesitated. If John mistook him for an enemy, he would shoot. Even at this distance, he could that the safety was off.

John cried out, 'Fall back! Fall back!'

As though in response to his own command, John sprang back up, ready to sprint away; but when all his weight fell on his bad leg, the sudden movement reignited the pain in his leg. Sherlock saw a spasm run through it like a tree branch shivering in the wind.

John collapsed to the ground again, face twisting in agony. 'I'm shot!' he sobbed. A trembling hand reached for the imaginary wound.

'John, you're dreaming!'

The shout, not the words, entered John's dream; he rolled himself onto his back, lifted his head, and aimed the gun at the closed door. Though his leg continued to quiver from the pain, his hands were steady around the gun, waiting to take the shot at the first sign of intrusion.

With great prudence bordering on trepidation, Sherlock repositioned himself behind John, away from the possible line of fire. His mind sped through what appeared to be the facts: John thought he was a soldier again; he was dreaming that he was back in Afghanistan, on the battlefield; and he'd just been wounded in action. He wasn't responding to his given name. Perhaps he would respond to something else.

'Captain Watson.'

John's head twitched slightly. 'Sir!' he answered.

And just like that, he was in.

Infusing his voice with as much confidence as he could, Sherlock endeavoured to play the part. 'The enemy is retreating.' He winced at his own bad dialogue.

John made no reply, perhaps not understanding, maybe not trusting what he said to be true. So he continued to re-craft the dream.

'The defences _have_ held. The danger is over.'

John nodded his understanding, but his arms didn't slacken. Sherlock could see a bead of sweat slide down his shiny face.

'Captain. Disengage your weapon.'

With great effort, John sat upright. He lowered the pistol and slid the safety on. Forestalling his sense of relief, Sherlock took a tentative step closer, reached down, and lifted the gun from John's hands. But John made no move to retain it. Exhaling, Sherlock placed the gun on the bed and crouched down again at John's side, taking John's arm. 'On your feet,' he ordered gruffly.

He helped John rise. John swayed and fell into him.

'Sir, I'm shot.' His voice quavered, his hands trembled.

'It barely grazed you,' said Sherlock, assuring him. 'Superficial wound. Like a scratch.'

'The blood—'

'It's already stopping. Look at it, do you see?'

John's head dropped to examine his leg and to see exactly what Sherlock told him to see. He nodded. 'Yes, sir.'

'We'll get you cleaned up in no time. Now. Can you walk?'

A long moment passed in quiet and stillness. John clung to the front of Sherlock's shirt, staring at a spot in the middle of Sherlock's chest but not really seeing it; Sherlock braced his arms on either side. At last, John nodded again. 'I can walk.'

When his feet were steady under him, Sherlock served as his cane and walked him out of the room, down the hallway, through the kitchen, and back to the sitting room.

'Shall I keep watch, sir?' John asked as Sherlock lowered him onto the sofa he wished didn't serve as a bed.

'The war is over, Joh— Captain Watson.' He grabbed a tissue from a box on the coffee table and began mopping up the shine on John's forehead and cheeks. He touched his brow with the back of his fingers—warm, from the racing heart, but his pulse was beginning to slow again. John did not respond to any of this; his eyes were half-lidded, and as if in slow motion his shoulders began to sag. 'No more bad dreams,' Sherlock said softly. 'You're dismissed, captain. You've served honourably. Return home to your family.'

As before, he helped John lie down and arranged his limbs comfortably on the sofa. John's head once again found the pillow, and as he sank into it and Sherlock pulled the blanket over his body for the second time that night, he said, 'They're dead, sir.'

Sherlock's hands froze on John's shoulder. John's eyes were closed and he looked perfectly asleep once more. But he was still talking, quietly, as he drifted away.

'Sherlock and Mary. They're both dead.'

He didn't say a word after that, and he didn't stir for the rest of the night. But Sherlock didn't go back to his room. He stayed awake in his armchair, watching his friend sleep, listening to him breathe, and thinking how, in some dark part of that troubled mind, a place where wars still raged and John Watson was a fallen soldier, Sherlock was still dead. And in the morning, when he awoke and remembered that such was no longer true, he would also remember that Mary was gone. And unlike Sherlock, she could never come back.


	7. Loopholes

**CHAPTER 7: LOOPHOLES**

**WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 7, 2015**

'I am sure I misheard you, detective inspector. Would you care to run that by me again?'

Greg Lestrade had been expecting this sort of a reaction—he had geared up for it, in fact, by running through every possible argument in his head again and again over the last forty-eight hours—but he wasn't finding this conversation any less uncomfortable. Gregson was a man he respected, who he believed had a favourable opinion of him in return. Only, right now, Lestrade was making himself out to be an absolute dunderhead; the expression on the chief superintendent's face was proof enough of that.

He spread his hands, less so in apology than in acquiescence to the absurdity of his request. 'I know how ludicrous this sounds.' That's right, concede the insanity. Only the sane recognise insanity for what it is. Right? 'And given the current . . . climate . . . the timing couldn't seem worse. But sir, I've known Sherlock Holmes for years, almost half my career. I've worked closely with him before. I know how effective he can be.'

'That's hardly the point.' Gregson managed a half-hearted laugh, his own acknowledgement that he hardly believed he was taking part in so ridiculous a conversation.

'He's already involving himself,' Lestrade reasoned. 'I couldn't stop him from investigating if I tried.'

Gregson shrugged. 'We could always lock him up,' he jested.

'What I'm telling you is, he's good. He's better than good. He found important evidence regarding Sam Jefferies' murder in the _dark_, for Christ's sake.'

'Because your team didn't have the wits enough to look _up?_'

Lestrade didn't let that slight derail him. 'I could use someone like that working at my side, not ten steps behind me about to pass me up.'

'Listen to yourself, Greg! Because it _sounds _like you're saying you can't do your own job.'

'That's not what I'm saying at all. _You_ oversee _me_; _I_ oversee a team, a team I am instructed to hand-select. I wasn't _meant_ to do this on my own. It's in the interest of solving crimes that I assemble the best of the best, and Sherlock—'

'—doesn't even work for the Met!'

'But he's the _best_. If I could bring him on, on a _contractual_ basis . . .'

'The Yard does not consult amateur detectives. That's all there is to say on the matter. You _know_ that, so why we're even having this conversation is beyond me.'

'But we've worked with him before. Dozens of times.'

'Never officially. And it was never _transparent_ what you boys were doing—bringing him in on cases, inviting him to crime scenes, letting him look at corpses and handle evidence . . . If there were an official investigation, do you have any idea the sort of trouble we'd find ourselves in? There's only so much we could pin on Pitts.' At that, Gregson laughed again, rubbing his face. 'Look. I know the bloke's brilliant. _Genius-_level brilliant. And I also know he's not a killer. But those people out there'—he indicated all of London with a jab of his finger—'_they_ don't know that, and the reporters would have a field day if they learnt that we had decided to _hire him on_ just days after clearing his name. They'd think we we've in bed with the man from the start. It's impossible, don't you see that?'

'I don't care what they think. And I don't care about all those other cases. I care about _this_ case. And _this_ case is one that Sherlock Holmes won't simply walk away from. For his own safety, and for John Watson's and all the other poor bastards like Sam Jefferies out there, it seems prudent that we take full advantage of every resource at our disposal. And Sherlock is the best damn resource we've got.'

Gregson regarded him seriously across the desk, and silence hung between the two men for a long moment. At last, the chief superintendent let out a long breath, closed his eyes, and shook his head no. 'I'm sorry, Lestrade. I really am. I just can't make it happen.'

* * *

Lestrade left the chief superintendent's office in defeat. Being honest with himself, he hadn't expected things to go any differently. Luke Gregson was no Tony Pitts, but he could be just as hard-nosed. All the same, Lestrade was kidding himself if he thought he would have given a different answer had _he _been the man behind the desk and some bumbling excuse of a detective had come begging to consult with a man formerly suspected of homicide, however wrongly.

On the one hand, he was relieved. At least he wouldn't have to explain to Donovan why it was that Sherlock Holmes was just over there, crouched over a dead body with a magnifying glass enlarging the smile on his face. But he was more greatly disappointed. Not only would he have had far greater confidence in apprehending the sadistic bastards whose sick game of torture continued, but he was also looking forward the day when he could show up on Sherlock and John's doorstep with _good_ news, rather than having another tête-à-tête devolve into a shouting match.

He was messing things up. He knew it. He was on Sherlock's side, on John's side, but he wasn't doing a whole hell of a lot to prove it.

Unable to stand another second inside NSY, he grabbed his coat from his office and fled. Though there was work yet to do, forms to fill and papers to file, nothing demanded his immediate attention. He was going to see Molly.

But two steps out the front doors, his mobile sounded.

'I see you've left the Yard,' said Mycroft Holmes.

'You know, I'm getting a little weary of you knowing my every minor move.'

'Nonsense. I know only the major ones.'

'If this is another assignment, I'm telling you, Mycroft, I'm full up at the moment . . .'

'Not an assignment, Greg. I have news to relate.'

'Good or bad?'

There was a pause. 'That depends entirely on who's asking. From my perspective, good. From yours, bad. Sherlock may very well agree with _you_, and John will most likely agree with _me._'

Lestrade rolled his eyes; let the CCTVs pick up on _that_. 'Well?' He reached his car, hit the unlock button on his keychain, and slipped inside.

'Sebastian Moran had no hand in Mr Jefferies' murder.'

His hand stilled on the key in the ignition. 'What? How do you know?'

'Allow me to amend: no _direct_ hand. He wasn't there on the night of the murder. Someone else assisted Hirsch in the homicide—_if_ Sherlock is to be believed that _two _men were involved.'

'I wouldn't doubt it.' He twisted the key, and the engine roared to life. He cranked the heat to the right and waited for the car to warm properly. 'Okay, I'll bite. How do you know this? If Moran wasn't there, where was he?'

'He's been spotted.'

'Where!'

'Baranavichy.'

Lestrade thought a moment, and Mycroft let him. Then it slid into place. 'Belarus. Sherlock passed through there three years ago.'

'October 2011, to be precise. If our recreated timeline is accurate.'

He was remembering more of the details. 'He anonymously exposed the major players in a human trafficking crime ring, part of Moriarty's network.'

'And seven men went to prison. I'll give you seven guesses, inspector, regarding which Belarusian prisoners just received early parole.'

'Son of a bitch.'

'Eloquently put.'

'So this is what you call good news, is it?'

'Inasmuch as John's tormentor is twelve hundred miles away, yes. What do you call it?'

'I want to put the bastard behind bars, and that's a little difficult when the maniac is_ twelve-hundred miles _out of my jurisdiction. We need him _here_. Neither Sherlock nor I would let him get anywhere near John.'

'Nevertheless, I'm sure John will sleep just a little easier. He's eluded us again, the slippery devil, but my people are working on apprehending him. So for now, you can focus _your_ attention on whom Sherlock so colourfully calls the _Slash Man_.'

'He didn't come up with it.' The car was getting comfortably warm, and he was eager to be on his way. 'Anything else?'

'Just pass it along. Though, as ever, no need to mention where it comes from.'

Lestrade shook his head in exasperation. 'When's the last time you actually saw Sherlock for yourself?'

'I paid him a visit day after Christmas. There was, of course, no mention of the holiday. I'm sure he and John did nothing by way of celebration. I didn't stay long.'

'You're really taking full advantage of his being alive again, aren't you,' said Lestrade sarcastically.

Mycroft's deflection was swift. 'Off to see the lady love, are you?'

Lestrade hung up.

* * *

He found her running forensics tests in the lab, bedecked in white lab coat, teal latex gloves, and oversized goggles. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, the loose strands secured with hairgrips lining her head like a crown. When she saw him, her face lit up with a smile.

'Wasn't expecting to see you,' she said, peeling off the gloves. She seemed to have forgotten about the goggles, but he liked the way they sectioned off her eyes. She had such large, brown eyes.

As the crossed the room to each other, he had the impulse to offer her a hello kiss, but perhaps that was too familiar, too soon? What was the proper order of these things? What if she ducked? Swatted him away? God, he'd not dated anyone in ages. A man his age shouldn't have to play this game anymore.

At the last second, the risk seemed too much, and he swerved straight to the question: 'Any chance of getting away for a bit?'

They left Bart's, and Lestrade directed them north, aiming for the Three Compasses on the other side of Smithfield Market. It was cold, but they walked slowly, side by side, gloved hands buried deep in coat pockets and taking the long way around. She didn't ask why he had popped over but seemed only happy that he had. Soon, they were speaking lightly of London in the summer and what they would each do if they had a week free from obligations and a warmer sun and a kinder city. Lestrade learnt that Molly had never been to a show on the West End despite a lifelong dream of going, and Lestrade mentioned that he had never been on the London Eye because it had always seemed too 'touristy'.

'Sounds like two failings that ought to be rectified,' she commented, grinning sideways at him.

Not once during the entire walk—he was already lamenting not having chosen a more distant destination as soon as the Three Compasses came into view—did he mention a case he was working; not once did she talk about cadavers. Not once did either of them bring up Sherlock Holmes. It was as though, for a single but ephemeral moment, they didn't exist in a world of crime but stood apart from such heinous goings-on, as though they were two normal people, common Londoners, enjoying a normal, grey, but carefree London afternoon together.

Having arrived during the dead hours, the pub was nearly empty. They sat at a square table by the window and ordered two Bailey's lattes. Molly continued to talk animatedly about her rows with her new landlord (regarding a faulty doorbell, the unreliable hot water, and her downstairs neighbours playing hip-hop music at three in the morning), and Lestrade would have felt guilty, having set her up in the place, except that she smiled through each story and reached each punch line with a laugh. He had an almost irrepressible urge to reach across the table and take her hand, but unaccountable shyness forestalled him.

It made no sense to him, this reticence. Not really. Molly would not withdraw her hand—he was sure she wouldn't. In fact, he was fairly confident she would be delighted at the gesture. So he couldn't say what was stopping him. He had been so much bolder as a younger man. He'd certainly been bold with Angela. Probably too bold there. They had rushed into things too quickly, marriage included, and had crashed and burned like a hijacked aeroplane (her metaphor, not his). Why they hadn't walked away from that wreckage years earlier than they did still perplexed him, and when they finally did, he discovered (to his shame) that he was afraid of fire, afraid of getting burned again. And Molly—she burned so brightly. He was mesmerised, couldn't look away . . . but couldn't touch.

'In fact,' she said, and he shook his head slightly to tune back into the conversation. He grinned guiltily, realising he hadn't caught a word from the last two minutes; he'd just been enjoying listening to her voice. But she was now looking a little uncomfortable. She hesitated, took a drink from the mug, and licked the foam from her upper lip.

'In fact what?' he prompted.

'I was going to call you later today anyway. Something that happened this morning that I thought you should know. You and Sherlock.'

And the streak was broken.

'All right,' he said, a touch wary.

'I had a visitor,' she said.

'Who?'

'I've forgotten her name, I'm afraid. But she was a reporter, she said.'

Lestrade couldn't stop the grimace. 'Kitty Riley?' he said between gritted teeth.

'Yes, that was it.'

'Damn that woman. What did she say to you? What did she want?'

'Just to ask me some questions, she said. At first it didn't seem like a very big deal, you know? How long had I worked at Bart's, do I often work alone, that sort of thing. I couldn't figure out why she was there, at first, why she was talking to _me_. But then she asked how long I'd known Sherlock. That's when I realised I probably shouldn't be saying anything at all. The papers haven't been very kind.'

Lestrade leant eagerly into the table. 'What all did she say, Molly? Every word you can remember.'

Her eyes went wide. 'Why? Is she'—her voice dropped to a whisper—'dangerous?'

'She knows more than she ought to. And she's drawing all the wrong conclusions to boot.' His hope that this would be a case-free, Sherlock-free hour was dashed, but there was no possibility of returning to less dire conversation. 'Go on, what did she say?'

'Well, she _does_ seem to know some things she shouldn't.'

'Like?'

'She knows I had been seeing Ji— Rich— I mean, _Jim_. She knows my signature was on the coroner's reports for both Sherlock and Richard Brook. She also knows I was working the night you all found John. So she kept asking me about my relationship with Sherlock. When did I first meet him? How well did I know him? Would I say we were _close?_ Did I see John when they brought him to hospital and what was his condition? That sort of thing.'

'Oh god.'

'I didn't answer her questions, Greg. Any of them.'

'No, no, I'm not saying you did. But she's digging in the right plots.'

'What's she after?'

'She's trying to prove that Moriarty wasn't real and that Sherlock's a madman. And a dangerous one. She's not looking for truth—she's trying to create it. Right now, she's more a nuisance that a danger, though character assassination is never pretty. If too many people believe her, and enough already do, things could get downright ugly for Sherlock.'

'Nothing's ever easy where he's concerned, is it?'

He laughed despite himself. 'God forbid his life get too dull.'

'Exactly. Then where would ours be?'

His lips closed over his teeth as he tried to maintain the smile. Her large eyes lifted and met his, and over nearly drained lattes they held one another's stare. Lestrade wanted to tell her that Sherlock or no Sherlock, the course of events would very likely have worked out just the same, and he would still find himself sitting across from her in this pub, exactly where he wanted to be. But he wasn't sure even he believed it. If it hadn't been for Sherlock's return, no matter how grim the circumstances . . . He felt guilty feeling that something good had come from it at all, especially when John had lost so much. But he wanted Molly to know that he had no intention of taking her for granted. He parted his lips and was on the cusp of saying this when, to his displeasure, that wretched mobile sounded in his pocket.

'So sorry,' he said, digging into his pocket. Her smile stayed frozen on her face even as she turned her head away, looking at the exit. Damn whoever this was, and if it was _Sherlock_ of all people . . . 'Lestrade,' he said.

'Detective, are you in the building?'

It was Gregson.

'Not at the moment, no.'

'Well, when you get back, pop into my office, would you?'

'Yes, sir. I'll be there soon.'

When he hung up, Molly said, 'I need to get back to the lab anyway.'

'I'm'—he stopped himself from saying _sorry_; he said sorry far too often to her, it seemed—'glad I got to spend even half an hour with you. It's never enough.'

'It's never enough,' she agreed. She stood and began redressing in scarf and gloves. 'Walk me back?'

'We'll take the long way.'

She rocked a little on her heels, happily. 'And slowly.'

When they stepped outside and met with the frigid air, Molly slipped an arm through his, and within two paces their feet were in sync.

* * *

Two stacks of files were waiting on Gregson's desk when Lestrade returned. One tall, one short. The chief superintendent held a single sheet of paper, and from a cursory glance, Lestrade could see that it had four columns of writing, some long, some short, all annotated in biro, but he wasn't especially adept at reading upside down at a glance.

'I was unhappy with our earlier conversation, detective inspector,' he said once Lestrade had accepted the invitation to take a seat. 'So I started reviewing the numbers.'

Lestrade's brow furrowed in confusion. He hadn't yet cottoned on to whatever Gregson was talking about, but rather than ask, he waited for enough of the chips to fall.

'Were you the first officer ever to use Sherlock Holmes on a case?'

Of course, this would still be about Sherlock. He felt a censure coming. 'I believe I was, yes,' he said truthfully. Full disclosure then: 'I used him more than anyone.'

'When was that? The first time, that is.'

He thought a moment. The first time? He hadn't exactly called the man up. Instead, Sherlock had phoned the police himself, and when he and his team showed up to the crime scene, they found this peculiar young man—god, he'd been so young then!—standing over the dead body of a teenage girl. Lestrade had never seen anyone quite like him. He was tall, thin, angular; well-dressed and clean-shaven and yet with an air of poverty; a haughty, almost Victoria sensibility superimposed on a juvenile smarminess; a phlegmatic intelligence with a vampiric edge. Sherlock hadn't waited two seconds before launching into a cool though rapid-fire explanation as to how it had happened, everything from the murder weapon (a wine bottle) to the colour of the murderer's cat (calico). Then he finished, face stoic but eyes alight and awaiting their awe and adulation. After all, he had been so thorough, so detailed, in every particular. So, naturally, they arrested him on the spot.

But it was during the subsequent car ride—Lestrade's then-partner in the driver's seat and Sherlock Holmes handcuffed in the back—that Lestrade began to have his doubts about this strange suspect, right about the time that Sherlock deduced his childhood overbite, morning dental appointment, and most recent failed attempt to quit smoking. He had been irritated as hell, but impressed. So he had pulled the strings he had known to pull at the time, and they held off booking him, kept him for questioning, and ultimately followed his leads, which led to the arrest—and ultimately the conviction—of the maths teacher.

Perhaps the first _dozen_ times, Lestrade had shown up to a crime scene only to find that this Sherlock Holmes had beaten him there. But the first time Lestrade had called _him?_

'Two thousand and . . . four, I think. Ten, eleven years ago, I guess.'

'Yes, that's what I thought.'

'Sir, what is this about?'

'Between 2004 and 2010, the Yard's homicide division—and notably cases headed by _you_—saw a steady increase in cases solved and a dramatic decrease in cold cases. And during the years 2010 and 2011, those numbers soared.'

_Two thousand and ten_, Lestrade thought. _That's the year Sherlock met John_.

'_These_'—Gregson laid a hand on the tall stack of files—'are all the cases _headed by you_ from January 2010 through June 2011 that were _solved_, beginning with the Jeff Hope serial murders. An eighteen-month span. _These_'—he laid his other hand on the considerably shorter stack—'are the unsolved ones. Do you know how many there are?' He fanned them out easily. 'Four. In eighteen months. That's a hell of a record, even for the best detectives.'

Lestrade ran a hand across the stubble on his chin, remembering. He knew exactly which cases those were. Sherlock had been in Minsk during one, uninterested in another, and genuinely stumped by the other two. Anderson still talked about those two, gleefully.

Gregson sat back in his chair and spread his hands. 'After June 2011, those numbers drop again. Not abysmal numbers, just nowhere close to what they had been. Above average for a Yarder, sure, but . . . well, you understand?'

Treating the question as merely rhetorical, Lestrade continued to say nothing. Of course he understood. Sherlock was brilliant, and he was not.

'He's good, isn't he?'

Clearing his throat, Lestrade said, 'Better than good. The best.'

'Then you see my dilemma.'

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. No, he didn't, quite.

'I can't just dismiss this kind of a closed-case record. No matter how you slice it, more cases get solved when this _Sherlock Holmes_ is involved, isn't that right?'

He nodded stiffly, uncertainly. What was Gregson driving at?

'That's what you were telling me this morning.'

'Yes, sir.'

'You still want him, then?'

Lestrade controlled his reaction and answered smoothly. 'I do. Absolutely.'

'Right.' Gregson sighed, laughed shortly, and said, 'Now understand this, Lestrade. Like I said before, I can't just let a civilian take part in a criminal investigation. Legal matters don't simply disappear. But there may be some ways to work around it. What if he's no longer just a civilian?'

'What do you mean?'

'Put him through the process. We hire him on, good and proper. As a constable. We give him a patrol beat or make him work trafficking for a year or two . . .'

Lestrade's solid composure was broken; he threw his head back and laughed.

'No?'

'You know, I made a similar suggestion, back in the day, when I was first getting to know him.' He giggled a little more, remembering the look of utter repulsion on the young man's face at what, to Sherlock, had been the most indecent of proposals. He hadn't thought of that in a long time, and it made him smile. 'Believe me. He'd rather fake his own death all over again than become a copper.'

'Kind of him to condescend to help us, then,' Gregson said sarcastically, though without offense.

'He likes the brain work.'

'Very well. It was just a thought. It seems that the most viable course of action, then, would be contractual work, an _official_ consultant of some sort.' He put up a hand to stop Lestrade from speaking. 'Now, I know what he calls himself. _Consulting detective_. The trouble is, detective work is _our_ area of expertise. We do not consult on _that_ point. I don't know the man like you do, so I leave it in your hands to find a reasonable, _legal_ way to bring him onto cases where he can be an asset and _not_ a hindrance.'

'Yes, sir.' Lestrade's heart was pounding with excitement. He would never have had this conversation with Pitts, not if half of Scotland Yard had been murdered and only one man could find whodunit.

'I'm giving you a lot of leeway here, Lestrade. Don't make me regret doing so.'

'I promise, you won't.'

Gregson grinned tightly. 'I don't expect it will be a popular move. Not just with the public, if they get wind of it. Some of the officers around here have very strong opinions regarding Holmes.'

'I'll handle them, sir. I've done it before.' He stood and closed the top button of his suit coat. 'But believe me: this is a good move.'

'I hope so. Oh, and Lestrade.'

Lestrade paused with his hand on the office door.

'Maybe it's none of my business, but how is it going with Dr Quinton?'

The amicable air between them suddenly cooled. 'Fine,' said Lestrade. 'Good. I expect he'll deem me _cured_ any day now.'

Gregson did not miss the cynicism. 'You know I can't have an officer with . . . unresolved issues, _distressing_ issues, performing in a dangerous environment where his judgement might be compromised.'

'I'm not traumatised, sir. I'm not.'

'Well then. If that's the case, I'm sure Dr Quinton will recommend that you be taken off probationary status any day now, like you said.'

Lestrade grit his teeth and continued out the door.

**THURSDAY, JANUARY 8, 2015**

It was not the most elegant solution. But it was a solution.

Lestrade punched his code against the doorbell and was buzzed up seconds later. Once inside their flat, he found Sherlock setting his violin back in its case and heard John laying dishes in the sink; next moment, he came into the sitting room and gave Lestrade a nod by way of greeting.

'John,' Lestrade returned. He was hoping for something of a smile, but John didn't seem to do that anymore. 'Sherlock.'

'Lovely, you recall our names with perfect clarity,' said Sherlock, dry as ever.

'It's called a greeting.'

'I notice you have once again brought me a file. How wonderful.'

Lestrade put on his happy face and said, 'It's not what you think. I've got _good_ news.'

'If it's about Moran being in Belarus, you can save your breath. We already know.'

'Do you?'

Of course they already knew—Lestrade had planted the information within his private database on the Yard's 'secure' network the night before, a database he suspected Sherlock checked regularly. It was how he kept Sherlock informed without revealing the true source of his information. That Sherlock did not ostensibly suspect made Lestrade feel very clever indeed, though the feeling of triumph extended only so far. It was hard to feel triumphant when you had no one to brag to.

But he played along. 'I guess I'll just skip that part, then.'

'I would hardly call it good news in any case,' Sherlock said.

Lestrade withheld a telling smirk and glanced swiftly at John to see whether Mycroft was right about him as well; John, however, was impossible to read. Instead, he crossed to the sofa and sat, setting the cane aside. He leant forward, elbows on knees, to listen.

'Nor do I,' said Lestrade. 'But that's not what I was referring to. You told me, Sherlock, to find a way to make it right with the Yard, didn't you? That is, to make _you _right with the Yard. Well, I have.' He waved the file in his hand.

For once, Sherlock didn't have a biting retort. Instead, he looked genuinely curious and reservedly pleased. 'Oh?'

'That's right.' Lestrade told himself to keep smiling, to keep Sherlock in a good mood. Then he'd see that his solution was . . . sensible. That, and _nothing-different-whatsoever_ from what they had done in the past. 'All you have to do is sign a single line on a simple form. A contract with the Yard. You sign it, and we can bring you in on any case you're interested in.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously, much of his good humour already gone. 'A contract?'

'Of course. You're not an officer or employee, so it's a contractual agreement that simply makes it legal for us to have you at crime scenes. Procedurally, it will be just like it was before. Only, now you'll have a little laminated card to add some, erm, legitimacy.'

'Hm.'

He wasn't buying it. He knew there was a catch. Lestrade waited for the questions.

'If this is only a simple contract, why did I never sign one before?'

'Ah. Yes, well. There may be a _little_ bit of a caveat.'

'Predictable. Very well. Let's hear it.'

'Well, Sherlock, in order to be given contractual work with the Yard, you have to be an approved expert in a field useful to an investigation.'

Sherlock's spine straightened and his eyebrows lowered. 'I'm a detective,' he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, hardly worth saying aloud.

Lestrade winced. 'Not an official detective of the Metropolitan Police, and that's the only kind Gregson or _anyone_ will go for. Detective work is out. We have to prove you're an expert in a field in which the Yard doesn't _already_ have expertise.'

Sherlock now cocked an eyebrow but, mercifully, refrained from offering his opinion on that point. 'Fine. The science of deduction, then.'

'Yes, well, it's not really a _recognised _field . . .'

'Chemistry.'

Lestrade was now squirming a little where he stood. The smile was slipping. 'You're good, Sherlock. You are. But'—he sighed—'you do not have an advanced _degree_ in chemistry, do you? Without that, the Yard won't recognise you as an expert.'

'He doesn't have a degree of any sort,' said John from his place on the sofa.

'Waste of time,' Sherlock said, looking pleased with himself.

It was true—Sherlock had attended only two-and-a-half years of university before becoming fed up with his uninspiring professors, mundane classes, under-intelligent classmates, and so forth. His excuse: uni was thoroughly under-stimulating. So he had dropped out and studied on his own, after his own fashion, never graduating, and never achieving any accreditation of any sort. Three years later, he began solving crimes.

'Not serving you so well now, though, is it?' Lestrade couldn't help saying. Sherlock glared, but in annoyance, nothing worse. 'Look, it doesn't matter, because I think I have a way around it.'

'What way?' asked Sherlock.

Here it came. 'Well. John'—he turned to John now—'we hire _you_ on as a medical consultant. You're a doctor, and a ruddy good one. And what with your army experience, having served in a medical capacity with real combat fieldwork, you're unique: I checked, and there's no one quite like you down at the Yard. You'd be invaluable.'

Something passed across John's face, an expression Lestrade didn't have time to name before it was gone. Was that excitement, or apprehension? Not for the first time since coming up with this plan, Lestrade began to doubt including John at all. Not only was he uncertain whether John was in any sort of mental condition to take on solving violent crimes again, but he was also completely unsure whether he would want to. As much as he wanted Sherlock, he half hoped John would simply say no.

But whatever John was thinking, it was concealed behind a carefully constructed mask of indifference. 'And Sherlock?' he asked.

He ran his tongue over his teeth and geared himself for the response. 'We bring him on'—he swallowed the uncomfortable rock lodged in his throat—'as your assistant.'

To his surprise, he saw John's lips quirk up on one side before fading again.

'_Assistant!_' Sherlock said. His face kinked with revulsion. 'I am not an _assistant!_'

'It's just paperwork, Sherlock,' said Lestrade with every effort to keep it light, meaningless, a trivial thing. 'Point is, it will get you to the crime scene. Once there, you just go about things as normal, like you always have done.'

Sherlock was hardly assuaged. 'But I'm not allowed _to_ the crime scene unless I'm tagging along behind John?'

'Well, no. Officially, you can't come without him . . .'

'Absurd!'

'You say it like it's a bad thing,' said John, but even Lestrade could tell it was spoken in jest.

Sherlock waved a hand. 'Come on, John, you know it's not like that. But it's entirely impractical. What about those days when John . . . _can't _come?'

A silence fell, each man inserting his own meaning into Sherlock's pause.

'He has a point,' said John to override the awkwardness. 'We're not joined at the hip, after all. Would I be able to'—Lestrade could have sworn John was not struggling to keep himself from grinning—'send him on assignment?'

Sherlock made a sound like a growl and spun on the ball of his foot, striding toward the window.

Lestrade couldn't help the smile that spread across his face now, and he exchanged a look of camaraderie with John that they hadn't shared in a long time, a look that said, _Our genius has the emotional discipline of a toddler_. At that, he knew John was on board, and because of that, no matter what fuss he made, Sherlock was sure to follow.

'Why yes, I dare say that such would be entirely within your purview as his boss.'

'I'll sign, then.'

'_Honestly_, John,' said Sherlock petulantly, though he did not turn around.

'Do you need a pen?'

'There's one right here on the desk, I think. Yes, here it is.'

'I've filled out your information already.'

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome to read the contract in full.'

'I'm sure it's in order.' John scribbled on the dotted line. 'Sherlock?'

Sherlock whipped back around, snatched the biro from John's outstretched hand, and bent to sign the damn contract.

'Intolerable,' he muttered, slashing ink across the page, right below the name _John H Watson_.


	8. Midnight at Borough Market

**CHAPTER 8: MIDNIGHT AT BOROUGH MARKET**

**FRIDAY, JANUARY 9, 2015**

She stood at the window, the light from the setting sun carving her into a silhouette. John watched as she fingered the curtains—brown-and-gold twill damask—and picked at the imperfections: loose threads, a forgotten pin, uneven stitching.

'I never could get them perfect,' she said. Her voice travelled across the room as though through water. An ocean.

'They look perfect to me,' John said. He unstuck his feet from the floor where his shoes were growing down into the wood, like roots. As he moved toward her, he trailed dirt and left deep scratches in his wake.

She looked over her shoulder, her face still shadowed, but a smile coloured her voice in shades of honey. 'Of course they do, to _you_, you goon. But then, you _never_ see the cracks in the statue. You never hear the flaws in the music, the dropped notes, dissonant chords. Or, rather, you choose not to.'

He didn't understand her, and she turned back to the window, her hands on the curtains. She was near enough now to touch, and he reached forward and brushed his hand down her long hair. The strands caught in the dying light and glowed like embers before falling like rain through his spread fingers and upon the floor. She drew the curtains closed to block out the natural light entirely. Only the pale light from the lamps remained. Now, when she turned to him, he could see her clearly: the soft lines around her eyes, the pink hue in her lips, the faded splash of childhood freckles across her nose. But something was wrong: her eyes. They were the wrong colour.

'John,' she said. Still, she smiled, but her eyes sparkled with tears. Slowly, she lifted a hand to his cheek, and he saw that her fingers were freshly severed, every one. She dragged her hand against his cheek in a caress, leaving behind streaks of shining red. He felt her warm blood cool on his hot skin.

'You never told me about him.'

'I . . . I couldn't.'

'You never told me he was dangerous.'

He tried to take her wrist, but it was like trying to hold a river. 'I didn't know,' he said in a whisper.

'You never told me that his hands were made of fire. That he destroys everything he touches.'

'I didn't—'

'You never told me his voice summoned storms.'

'I swear, I never—'

'You knew. Deep down, my love, you knew. You chose not to see the flaws in the diamond, its surface blemishes and deep-down cracks. You were blinded by its brilliance. But you see them now, don't you? The cracks.'

Behind him, John heard the front door open, groaning like a tree in a gale. He turned his head to look over his shoulder, but Mary caught his jaw with the palm of her bloody hand and kept his eyes fixed on her.

'It's the tempest,' she said. 'The boughs are breaking.'

Then she kissed him lightly on the lips; he tasted the iron in her blood. But the moment he tried to pull her closer, she pulled back, stepped around him, and started toward the door where stood a dark figure, waiting for her.

'Don't go, Mary,' he said. 'Please.'

Her feet halted. She looked back over her shoulder and smiled with teeth made of glass. All the warmth was gone, and in its place, ice. 'I am not Mary.'

Mary's visage crumbled away like dry, falling leaves, and in her place, John saw the Woman. Behind her, stepping out of the shadows, was Moran. He twirled a silver scalpel in his hand, and his eyes were as black as night. As she passed Moran on her way to the door, she kissed him, too, chastely, like spouses, not lovers. Then she crossed the threshold and pulled the door closed behind her, leaving John and Moran alone in the room, a room which had just become a small, cold box constructed of close, steel walls.

Moran smiled. 'Johnny boy.'

* * *

A cry tried to burst through his throat. But his jaw was locked and kept the sound trapped. His arching back brought him off the sofa, and when he fell back again, he was wide awake. Nevertheless, the bitter dregs of panic sat in the pit of his stomach and threatened to push up in the form of bile. He flailed once, and next he knew, he was on the floor, knees stinging and nails scraping for purchase.

He was quickly regaining his wits. 'A dream, a dream,' he whispered urgently to himself while at the same time suppressing the urge to retch. But he couldn't stop his arms from shaking, and doubt clouded his mind. Desperately, he sought the gun lying just out of view beneath the sofa; it was his touchstone, and the moment he felt its cold steel, he knew he was awake—it was always so hot in his dreams. Hot like fired iron.

For a few moments, he knelt on the floor, digging clenched and trembling fists into his stomach in an effort to keep them still but with the opposite effect of rocking his whole body, a body that told him that it needed to break, to cry, but he refused its pleas. Not here, not now. Not while he had his wits about him. He had to be stronger than that.

But there was movement in the flat, coming from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. Oh god, had he heard? He'd been doing well with the night terrors, with hiding himself during his weaker moments, and Sherlock didn't know how much he was still struggling. And that was good. John didn't want him to. And in any case he was already calming. He didn't need to be brought back again from the brink. So maybe he could fool him, again. As smoothly as he could, he rolled himself back onto the sofa, grabbed the blanket, and hastily wiped the wet from his eyes, even as Sherlock's footsteps sounded in the hallway. Then he stilled and feigned sleep.

Next moment, the light in the kitchen flicked on with utter disregard for whoever might be trying to sleep in the adjoining room.

'John!'

It wasn't Sherlock's booming day-time voice (he must have been at least half-sentient of the hour), nor was it the voice he used to pull John from a dream; but it was urgent nonetheless. John opened his eyes in time to see Sherlock bending over the sofa to shake his arm. His face was in startling proximity.

'Are you awake?'

'Of course I'm awake,' John said, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. 'Impossible to sleep with you knocking about.'

'Get dressed, then. Lestrade just called. There's been another one.'

'Another . . . ?'

'Murder, John! Lestrade's sending a car.'

He disappeared back to his bedroom, and John trudged up to his. When he re-entered the sitting room, shirt buttoned to the collar, he found Sherlock fully dressed and shrugging into his coat, alert and agitated as though he had recently downed two or three cups of coffee. Cases had always had that sort of stimulating effect on the man. John, however, was still trying to slow his racing heart. He sank back down onto the sofa to put on his shoes.

'What time is it?' he asked while he laced.

'Half three. First officers are arriving on the scene right about now. The rest are en route, like us.'

'Lestrade wasn't kidding about using us, then.'

'Not remotely.'

He could feel Sherlock's excitement radiating from the man as if he were a furnace, and standing so close that he loomed. It felt to John as though impatience had assumed a physical form. A flicker of annoyance caused John to pause, which he shouldn't have. The tremor in his hands reignited. He tried to compensate for this by balling his hands around the laces and giving them a sudden yank. Without looking up, he said, 'What are you doing?'

'As your _assistant_, I took the liberty of fetching your coat.' Now John glanced up from his lacing, his mouth crooked ever so slightly with amusement to find Sherlock waiting for him with exaggerated patience, John's coat slung over an arm. When he stood, Sherlock opened the coat, an indication that he intended to help him into it. Indulgingly, John turned and slipped both arms into the sleeves at once.

'You won't make a habit of this, I hope,' said John lightly.

'Efficiency, John,' Sherlock said, clapping his hands on John's shoulders. He then bent over, picked up John's cane from where it leant against the sofa, and extended it to him with a perfunctory nod.

John took it and followed Sherlock out the door, confident that the most observant man in the world hadn't noticed anything at all.

* * *

'Where is the body?' Sherlock asked the moment his car door was closed and before Lestrade had even pulled away from the kerb.

'South London, Borough Market,' Lestrade answered. He flicked on the flashing red and blue lights, though not the siren. It hardly mattered, though, given the hour. The streets were untrafficked, quiet.

'A vendor?' John asked from the backseat.

'No word yet on who he is.'

'But you think he's one of the Slash Man's,' said Sherlock.

'I wouldn't have called you two up if I didn't. Initial report says he was found in the same condition as Sam Jefferies. Two kids found him, teenagers, called 999 about thirty-five minutes ago . . .'

Lestrade's voice seemed to meld into the background, his voice rumbling in harmony with the car's engine. Sherlock continued to ask questions, Lestrade continued to answer, but to John, it was noise. Just noise. The only words that registered were the echoing syllables: _found in the same condition, same condition_. Half naked, then. Beaten and bloody. The signature claw-like slashing along the sides and hips. Without being aware that he was doing it, John touched his own scars through his clothes, knowing where they began, where they ended, tracing them, the way they curved. He remembered how those nails had felt, how they had dragged through and ripped open skin, each time he struggled to get away. The pain that was mere prelude.

He hadn't seen the last victim, hadn't wanted to. Hell, he didn't want to see this one. But Lestrade needed Sherlock, and Sherlock needed _him_. And in some twisted way he hadn't quite worked out for himself yet, he needed this too, needed to prove to everyone—himself not least of all—that he could be useful again.

'Isn't that right, John?' asked Sherlock, turning his head slightly to speak to the back seat.

'Yes,' said John, not at all sure what he had just agreed to. He became suddenly aware of his fingertips tracing the scars and pulled both hands away from his sides, shoving them between his knees to trap them for the duration of the drive.

When they arrived, Sherlock was the first out of the car. He was like a hound taken out to hunt after too long cooped up indoors. His face hid his enthusiasm well—as indifferent and unperturbed as ever—but John could see it in his long strides and quick steps as they passed through the dark market, empty but for the debris of plastic sacks, discarded newspapers, and other rubbish left over from the day. Sherlock and Lestrade strode side by side, leaving John to hobble along behind. Lestrade cast occasional looks of guilt and apology over his shoulder; but when he tried to slow and re-establish the pace, being mindful of John's limp, Sherlock only left him behind and kept talking, forcing Lestrade to pick up again.

John didn't mind—he really didn't. He didn't need coddling.

They soon approached the scene where yellow tape had already been drawn and the other officers were already milling about. Lestrade raised his voice to them: 'Don't touch _any_thing!' He lifted the tape for both Sherlock and John to pass under. 'Forensics, you'll have second crack at it. But for now . . .'

He didn't need to finish. Everyone had already halted what they were doing, though not one of them in a way that could be described as deferential. They knew whom Lestrade had brought with him and that Gregson had actually _sanctioned_ it (suggested it!), and they were all displeased. John felt the heat of their eyes on his face, and when he glanced around, he noticed that their gazes darted back and forth, from Sherlock to him and back again. Of course. They were a _spectacle_. One, a resurrected being; the other, a recent torture victim, still bearing the evidence in his scarred face and lame leg. Many of them had seen the convent, the state of the kitchen, a place by all rights and laws of nature he should never have left alive. He had no business standing there, like he was. Neither of them did.

John hadn't anticipated how starkly discomfiting he would find their gaze, and he realised that this was the first time in weeks, going on months, that he had been among so many people at once, and with all their attention on _him_. The seclusion of the flat had been a comfort, but now, he saw, also a crutch. Suddenly hyperaware of how he must look to them, leaning on his cane with his shoulders hunched against the cold, he felt conspicuous, self-conscious, naked.

_Hurry it up, Sherlock_, he thought, feeling ill. His chest was tight, his stomach upside down.

On the surface, Sherlock appeared to be feeling none of this. If he saw how some officers folded their arms at his arrival, and how others glowered, he gave no sign and proceeded to treat them all like wallpaper. He shut his ears to the pair whispering their disapproval on the edge of the circle, and he paid no mind when Anderson threw a pair of latex gloves on the ground antagonistically and stood, hands akimbo, as though in challenge. The only person he didn't discount outright was Sgt Donovan: he held out his hand to her, palm up, silently requesting a pair of fresh gloves.

She couldn't bring herself to raise her eyes to him, and her jaw was clenched tighter than a wrenched vice. But she handed him the gloves.

'A little _space_, thank you,' he said. However reluctant, they all obliged and stepped away from the body.

And John got his first look at the dead man. He blinked, and he was

_suddenly on the ground, frigid, rigid like a new corpse, but with breath like vapour, blood like poison, and a draining heart that went_

_thump . . . thump _

He blinked again, cleared his head. Not on the ground. Standing. And his heart was sprinting, not waning.

The body on the ground was not his own. But it had been brutalised. Illuminated beneath floodlights Lestrade's team had brought in, it held nothing back. John could see large, dark contusions colouring the bare torso from collarbone to pelvic bone. A red ring of chaffed skin wound round his neck. The dead man's face was awash in blood, which dyed his fair hair dark red, and John instantly suspected bashed in teeth, a caved in nose, broken jaw and cheekbones. This man had fought, and fought fiercely. What good had it done him in the end?

He saw, too, the vicious slash marks on hips and upper thighs, just like Lestrade had mentioned, and John's own flared up in horror and sympathy. The dead man's genitals were exposed and showed signs of abuse, as well—the skin, black and red and swollen. His trousers were left twisted around his ankles. He wore two shoes, but one was missing its laces, which had been used to bind the wrists. An absurd urge to draw his own together beset him, nearly overcame him. Stifling a whimper in his throat, he determinedly kept his hands apart—one on the cane, the other balled in the pocket of his coat. Both trembled relentlessly; he hoped the quaking could be passed off as a reaction to the cold.

Sherlock crouched down beside the body, snapping on the second glove. He started with the hands, pulling the fingers apart, observing the pads and nails. He examined the shoelace binding the wrists. Pulling out a small magnifying glass, he moved up the arms, to the shoulders, neck, hairline. He lifted eyelids, pulled down the bottom lip, pushed in the skin at the cheek. He didn't say a word, but John knew he was collecting, sorting, and processing data—he had seen him do it this way a hundred times before.

His eyes were alight: studious and zealous all at once. He moved around the body with utter and enviable detachment, as if it were nothing more than a fallen log, just one in a forest of trees marked for the hewing. He might as well have been counting rings, examining lichen, sniffing moss.

Everyone's eyes—whether scornful or curious—were locked onto his every bird-like movement. Already, John was fading, melding with the shadows.

Sherlock circled the head, worked his way down the other side, and crouched down at the feet. There, with tweezer-like fingers, he reached inside the right pocket of the bunched trousers and pulled out . . . a small, white flower.

'What is that?' Lestrade asked, leaning in. The others inclined their bodies forward as well, unwillingly curious, though they didn't lift their feet.

The flower was crushed, its tiny petals wilted and torn. Sherlock rolled the stem slowly between his forefinger and thumb, looking at it from all angles. He sniffed it. '_Conium maculatum_,' he said. He lifted his eyes to Lestrade's. 'Hemlock. And fresh. Couldn't have been plucked more than a few hours ago. Local florist or greenhouse. Bag.'

Lestrade signalled to one of his officers to pass Sherlock a plastic bag. The officer grudgingly complied.

He dropped the flower into the bag and returned to the pocket, extracting another flower, then another, then a rose petal.

'Has a right little garden in there, hasn't he?' said Lestrade drily.

'Hemlock,' said Anderson, suddenly, pocketing his Blackberry, still aglow. 'Poisonous, that is. Stem, petals, pistils. Was once used as a method of execution. Could be the bloke was poisoned to death.'

Both Sherlock and Lestrade turned their heads slowly in his direction, regarding him scathingly and with no small trace of irritation.

'That would account for the bludgeoning, then, eh, Anderson?' said Lestrade.

'Spare yourself some dignity by avoiding future Wikipedia recitations,' said Sherlock. Then, to Lestrade, 'Head of forensics, did you say?' Without giving Lestrade a chance to respond, he pulled off the latex gloves. 'The flowers are a _message_,' he said, sitting back on his heels, 'not a weapon. Run the tox screens—you won't find any poison in his system. Heroin, yes. But that's not what killed him.'

'Heroin?'

'The signs are obvious. Your Joe Bloggs here was a heroin addict, the habit that cost him his job in the medical field, his family, and ultimately his home. He's been living on the streets for two years . . . maybe thirty months, given the state of his teeth. Foil under the nails—he used gum wrappers, not a spoon, to prepare the drug. Callouses on the fingertips from burns over the course of months. Inner arm shows scar tissue where he injected. One injection site is red and puckered—_fresh_—there's dried blood around the wound, and an indention in the skin where he created his own tourniquet with a shoelace, _his _shoelace, before it was used against him to bind his hands. All evidence indicates that he was shooting up shortly before he was attacked. Eyes are still dilated—but of course, he is _dead_, after all, three hours at most—but also bloodshot. He was high when he died, still in the first twenty-minute rush, or he wouldn't have been able to fight as ferociously as he did.'

'Did he?' asked one of the officers, shyly.

'Of _course_ he did, look at the body! There are signs of struggle on every inch of him.'

'You said_ medical field_,' said Lestrade. 'You mean he was a doctor?'

'Possibly. Possibly a nurse or even a paramedic. Not enough data to be sure. But he has an educated knowledge of anatomy and veins and knows how to administer a needle.'

'Yeah, but with enough practice, anyone, especially an _addict_, could learn the proper way to—'

'Not like this, Lestrade. He was _trained_. It's obvious.'

'Obvious to a former junkie, at least,' said Anderson. He spoke at a coward's half volume, but everyone heard him clearly—his voice was full of acid. Sherlock blinked, clearly not expecting the charge, and his jaw tightened as his eyes stabbed Anderson from where he crouched beside the dead man. The uncomfortable silence hung just a little too long, until Anderson amended, 'Sorry, did I get that wrong? _Not_ former?'

'That's enough, Anderson,' said Lestrade tightly.

'Not exactly a secret—'

'I said, _can it_.'

'So what's the message?' Donovan suddenly cut in.

Now Sherlock fixed his eyes sharply on Donovan, who was at last meeting his gaze with an air of defiance that dared him to impress. It looked like a staring contest, and everyone held their collective breath, waiting for one of two possible outcomes: Donovan would back down, or Sherlock would answer with an insult, and things would escalate from there.

But neither of those things happened.

'It's a threat,' Sherlock said, rising. He turned his back deliberately to Anderson.

'Against who?'

Sherlock's eyes slid sideways to meet John's, then away again. 'Me.' He cleared his throat. 'You're right, Lestrade—he was a victim of the Slash Man.'

'It's _likely_,' said Donovan. 'But we prefer solid evidence. DNA. That's not something you can know just by looking.'

'Have you _met _me? The marks on his hips and thighs—_identical_ to that which was found on past victims.'

'It is compelling,' said Lestrade, his tone calibrated to diffuse the tension and remind everyone of the _investigatory _nature of their work. 'And very likely a match. There's no sign of bleach on this body—the last corpse reeked of it—so we're almost certain to get a viable DNA sample to run. Then we'll have to compare these marks to the ones found on Jefferies.'

Anderson sniffed. 'Or just get Watson here to drop his trousers and go for the live comparison.'

Sherlock whirled about with the speed of a tornado. '_Lestrade!_' he bellowed.

But Lestrade didn't need the push. He had already grabbed Anderson up by the scruff of his coat and was dragging him away from the crime scene. 'The hell's _wrong_ with you?' Sherlock heard his words, heard the scrape of shoes as Lestrade hurried the little weasel away, but he wasn't watching; his vision swam, and he saw red. His eidetic memory flared up, and instead of the body of an unidentified male on the ground, he saw John, John as he had been, that night in that walk-in freezer, seventy-seven days ago. Scarlet slashes marring every inch of bare skin. Crimson cutting into his memory. The rush and heat of blood that signalled both life and death.

'Holmes. _Holmes_.'

He flinched, drawn back to reality like a fish on a snapped line. '_What?_' he asked, irritably.

It was an officer he didn't know very well; but unlike before, this time he had bothered to learn their names. As it turned out, it was useful to know who had your back, and who might turn. This one—Dryers, he thought the name was—had Lestrade's personal commendation, though Sherlock hadn't entirely made up his mind about him yet.

'Your man, Holmes. Just took off. You want someone to . . . ?'

Sherlock looked to the empty place where John had been standing just a moment ago. He spun, coat swirling around his legs, eyes piercing the darkness beyond the circle of artificial light. He thought he saw a shadow moving at the end of the row: it limped, staggered, and disappeared behind a booth and around the corner. His breath hitched. Sherlock pushed through two officers and strode swiftly in pursuit of the fading figure.

_Damn that Anderson!_ he thought, picking up his pace to a jog. He mentally scrolled through his list of favourite ways to get the man sacked or permanently disabled as he rounded the corner and saw nothing but a dark, silent road and a parked lorry. But on the ground, behind the rear tyre, he saw the end of John's fallen cane, the aluminium reflecting the street lamps. Then he heard the retching.

Behind the lorry was John, bent double with his hand splayed against the brick wall of the side of the building. He had just finished vomiting and was now coughing and gasping for breath.

'Are you—?' Sherlock began.

But John waved him away with his free hand. 'A minute, Sherlock,' he said, breathless. 'Please.' His head bowed below his bracing arm, and he retched again.

For a short moment, Sherlock was torn between wanting to do something, _anything_, and giving John the space he had asked for. Then he supposed that the latter was an answer to the former. He retreated to the corner and nearly ran headlong into Donovan. Her shoes skidded on the gravel.

'Oh,' she said. Her eyes looked over his shoulder. 'Is he—?'

He grabbed her arm and spun her back the way she had come. 'Not now.'

With a sharp jerk, she wrested herself from his grip. That's when she heard the unmistakable sound of a man retching onto the pavement. She looked up at him with flinty, accusing eyes. 'You're a cruel man, Sherlock Holmes,' she said.

'Another time, yes?' he said icily.

'Bringing him here. In this state.'

'He wanted to come.'

'And you let him.'

'He's not a _child_.'

'He's not _well_.'

He scowled and stepped around her to draw her away from John, fully expecting her to follow. And she did. In a moment, she was right on his heels, determined to speak her mind.

'It's wrong—you know it's wrong. Treating him like he's the same as before, like nothing's happened to him. He shouldn't be here. _You _shouldn't be here. Lestrade won't tell you this because he thinks he _needs _you to solve this.'

'He _does_ need me.'

'And you're a package deal, right? So to hell with Watson then, is that it?'

He rounded on her. 'Don't pretend to give a damn.'

'I thought _you_ gave one. At least where _he's_ concerned. Did he tell you he's fine? That he can handle it? I thought you were a genius. _Look at him_. He'll put himself through hell all over again for you, if you let him.'

'He's not doing it for _me_. It's for _her_.'

Donovan's mouth fell closed.

'Now why don't you be _useful_ for a change and get us a cab. We're going.'

He turned again, to return to the lorry, and this time she didn't follow. But he heard her footsteps carrying her, not back to the crime scene, but on toward the main road. She was getting them that cab after all—he hadn't actually expected her to.

He found John with his back bracing him against the brick wall beside the puddle of sick. His head hung low, but Sherlock could see that his eyes were squeezed shut as though in intense pain. He heard a noise like a sob, then his eyes dropped to where, between his knees, John's wrists were pressed firmly together.

Sherlock reacted. Away from the security of 221B, all those weeks of conditioning himself against intrusive physical contact whenever John was in a state fell to the wayside. He lunged forward, grabbed John's forearms, and wrenched his hands apart.

John screamed and jerked away from him, scraping along the wall and almost falling over.

'It's me, it's me!' Sherlock said, his hands raised now, a sign he wouldn't touch him again.

But John was still edging away, dragging his bad leg with him. One hand bore his weight and guided him against the wall, the other he held out in front of him, as though to keep Sherlock at bay. 'Tight and quivering, that's how he likes us,' John said. His voice was pitched high with distress.

'What?'

'What?'

John's eyes refocused. He looked at Sherlock, but it seemed that a few seconds passed before he knew him. Then he glanced around, up and down the dark street, as though reacquainting himself with where he was. He looked confused and distraught.

'What did I—?' he started, but stopped himself. He swallowed. 'You do it, then?' The abrupt steadiness in his voice was at odds with the signifiers of stress his body language spoke. His chest rose and fell rapidly with his heavy breathing and his fists were clenched at his sides. He took a step on his bad leg, wobbled, and fell back again, his back striking the brick wall.

'Did I do what?' asked Sherlock. He took a tentative step forward, but John's whole body flinched and his hand raised again as a barrier.

'With . . . Lestrade.' He nodded down the street to indicate the crime scene, but he couldn't seem to stop; his head kept bobbing. 'The . . . body.'

'Yes,' said Sherlock. He took a couple steps back to relieve the invisible pressure of his encroaching on John's walls. He retrieved the fallen cane. 'I've done all I can for the moment. Seen all I need to.' Keeping his distance, he extended the cane to John handle first. 'There's a cab waiting to take us home.'

John took the cane by the grip, set it upright on the ground, and slowly rested his weight on it, as if he expected it to fold under him. But he didn't move. Maybe he couldn't.

'Can I—?' Sherlock began.

'Good. I'm good,' said John. Then he stepped forward. And he began to move, as swiftly as he was able, toward the main road. The soldier's mask was back.

They found the cab parked and waiting for them, Sgt Donovan leaning down to talk to the cabbie. When she saw them coming, her spine straightened and she stepped back from the kerb.

'Get some rest, yeah?' she said to John, pulling the back door open for him.

He didn't answer, just slid into the car as quickly as his leg would allow. When she shut the door, he turned aside to hide his face.

Then she faced Sherlock. He stood rigid, awaiting her next words of insult and chastisement and preparing to meet them. But she said nothing. Instead, they stared at each other for a long moment, jaws tight and shoulders squared, the both of them. At last, Sherlock broke the silence.

'I won't work with Anderson. He's off this case.'

'Not my call.'

'I'm telling you how it is. You need me, not him.'

With that, he turned his back to her and walked around to the other side of the cab. To her credit, she said nothing, just disappeared once again down the nearest row of booths.

He pulled the door open, but just before he set foot inside, a movement caught in his periphery. Turning his head, he saw, at some distance behind, a figure standing in the mouth an alley, watching him. He squinted into the darkness. Given the height and stature, it was a man, but other than that vague detail, he could discern nothing more, not at this distance. Not age, not race, nothing. Could have been anyone.

He was torn. John needed to get home, but this man—whoever he was—might know something, might have seen something.

The figure raised an arm, pointed directly at him, and gestured for him to come closer before stepping back into shadow.

'Two minutes, John,' said Sherlock. He closed the door, held two fingers up to the cabbie through the passenger window, and took off with long strides toward the alley. As he walked, he reached inside his coat for his small, metal torch. It wasn't much, but, if needed, it would serve as a baton.

He slowed as he drew nearer the mouth of the alley where the night shadows made the way black as pitch. Swiftly, he clicked on the torch and inadvertently aimed it right into the face of—

He sighed out in exasperation. 'Ewan,' he said.

'Shit, man, get that thing outta my face!'

He lowered the beam to chest level; he had already seen enough to know that Ewan—a thinner, more junkie Ewan than the version he had seen back in October—hadn't gotten any sleep that night.

'Well?' he asked. 'Have you been waiting here all night?'

'Figured you might show,' said Ewan, 'what when I heard he'd gotten Holden.'

Sherlock stepped forward eagerly. 'Holden,' he said. 'That was the victim's name?'

'That was the _man's_ name, yeah.'

'Who told you?'

'Man, I _knew_ him, no one had to tell me.'

'No, who told you he'd been killed?'

'Word spreads.'

'Word spreads fast, apparently; he hasn't been dead three hours.'

'Yeah, well,' Ewan sniffed and rubbed his nose. 'We was friends.'

'Who supplied who?'

'Eh?'

'No. That's not it. You get high _together_, isn't that right?' He dragged the beam down Ewan's arms, to his singed fingertips, and back up to his bloodshot eyes. Ewan squinted and turned his head aside. 'Tonight. You shot up tonight. You were with him when you did. Did you see—?'

'Nah, man, I didn't see nothing. Course I saw _nothing_. No one ever does.'

'Tell me. What happened?'

Ewan sniffed again and shifted his weight. 'Weren't nothing. I took mine, he took his. Then I needed a piss. Wasn't gone a minute, not one sodding minute. When I come back.' He shrugged. 'Just gone.'

'Where were you?'

'A multi storey. Near Guy Street Park.'

About half a mile away, then. 'Cold night.' He noted Ewan's thin, flimsy coat.

'Yeah. Well.' He shrugged again. 'Went looking, you know? Ran into some blokes, _friends_. They told me. Said it was the Slash Man and coppers were on their way.'

'What blokes?'

'You know. Just some blokes. _My _people.' He moved agitatedly, constantly shifting weight and swinging his arms at his side, like he was about to take off. 'Wasn't gone a minute.'

'That's it? That's all you can tell me?'

Ewan glowered. 'I didn't _come here_ to tell you that. Ain't nothing I got to say is of any use in finding the Slash Man. Nah. I come here to give you a piece of my mind, that's what.'

Sherlock's eyebrows lowered in genuine confusion. 'What?'

'Two people are dead, man. Raped and killed. Old Slash, he never did that before—the killing, I mean. Messed 'em up pretty good, but always left 'em breathing. Always. Then . . . then he got hold of your mate.'

'Stop right there—'

' 'At's when it all changed, eh? Course, could be 'cause _you _came back. Or maybe both things together. I dunno. All I know is, before your bloody resurrection, no one died. Now . . .'

'I see. So you've decided to blame me.'

'Yeah. Yeah, I have. 'Cause that's the other thing.'

'What thing?'

'I seem to remember you making a promise. In the pub, that night. You said we didn't have to be afraid of shadows no more. Said you'd find him. Said you'd kill him.' Ewan lifted his chin and licked his lips—confidence undermined by doubt. 'Last I checked, you ain't done nothing.'

Sherlock snorted. 'It's not so simple—'

'No? Been working on it since, what, October, have you? So. Here's how I remember it. That doctor friend of yours goes missing. You come to me, I tell you what I know. Then you find him, what, a day later?'

Sherlock didn't say a word. That's exactly what it had been.

Ewan shrugged again and wiped a hand across his nose. 'Case solved. Seems simple enough. You get him back, and that's that. Got what you wanted. So fuck the rest of us, eh?'

'Don't be absurd. I'm doing everything I can think—'

'Man, fuck you. _Fuck you_. I thought we was on the same side.'

Ewan turned sharply and retreated down the alley, kicking aside a construction cone and disappearing. The noise he made as he retreated echoed loudly in the alley and left Sherlock's ears ringing.

The cold was beginning to numb him—fingers and ears—but there was heat in his face. With a huff of anger, he clicked off the torch and returned it to his pocket; then he stepped back to the street and began walking back. But when he lifted his head, his feet stopped dead under him.

The cab was gone.


	9. Four on the Scale

**CHAPTER 9: FOUR ON THE SCALE**

**FRIDAY, JANUARY 9, 2015**

Sherlock's heart lurched sharply in his chest, trying to escape. As Ewan's own running footfalls echoed in the distanced, he ran in the opposite direction, swiftly covering the short distance to where the cab had been idling just moments ago. When he came to the spot, he stopped and dug his mobile out of his pocket. He hit the number one speed dial and pressed the phone to his ear.

'Pick up, damn it, John. Pick _up_.'

The line rang, and rang, and rang. John had not yet bothered to set the voicemail on his new phone.

'_Damn it!_'

He started running again, legs pumping so quickly he nearly lost control of them. He flew down Stoney Street, following the cab's most probable path. _Two minutes_, he'd said. Why had he left for even two _seconds?_ How had he not noticed when the cab began to roll away? Had John simply decided he wouldn't wait? Or had the cabbie put his foot on the accelerator of his own volition, carrying John away like Anton Willoughby had, that fateful day in mid-October?

_Stupid, stupid!_

The fears that clouded his mind nearly darkened his sight as he remembered, all too vividly, stepping into the cold, lightless convent, ten days too late, and he stumbled into a short stack of empty fruit crates left on the corner as he rounded swiftly onto Park Street, following the GPS in his head. He had no hope, none at all, of catching up with a moving vehicle, but he was as likely to stop his feet from running as he was to stop his heart from racing or mind from whirring.

He would call Donovan. She had seen the cabbie too, spoken to him, in fact. Maybe she knew something. And if she didn't, she could still put out the word. He remembered the cab number, after all.

But before he could punch her number into his phone, his text alert sounded.

'Oh!' he cried aloud, skidding to a halt. He lifted the phone before his wide, desperate eyes and saw his brother's name.

A stab of disappointment met with an unexpectedly warm sense of hope. He opened the message.

_Southwark St, headed  
west. Hurry._

Incomplete sentences? Mycroft must have been texting with haste.

He doubled back on Park and hung a quick right back onto Stoney. He erupted out of the darkened street and onto well-lit Southwark like a startled bat, took another right, and scanned the street for a black cab. Instead, he saw, not half a street away to the west, the back of man with a pronounced limp, moving at a surprising speed away from him.

'John!'

The man staggered a little to the right as if the sound of his name was a physical blow, but he didn't turn. He kept on with a determined, if not hampered, gait. Sherlock slowed to a jog, feeling like a great weight had just been lifted off his chest. In moments, he was at John's side again.

Keeping with John's anxious pace, he said calmly, if not warily, 'John. You left the cab. I thought—' But he couldn't voice it.

John shook his head firmly, lips pressing together. A small noise stuck in his throat.

When it was clear that John wasn't about to say anything, Sherlock started to explain himself to the only man who had ever made him feel the need. 'It was Ewan. Homeless network.' He had told John of Ewan's part in helping him learn more about Darren Hirsch, but if John remembered that now, he gave no sign. His eyes were fixed straight ahead. 'He knew the victim, though not much more.' It didn't seem the time to go into the details—the drugs, the name, the accusation, was any of it at all relevant anyway?—but he had to say _something_. 'Kid looked half frozen. He's been out here all night.' When John still made no effort to acknowledge or respond, Sherlock said, 'I'll get us another cab. It'll be warmer—'

'_No._'

John took an unexpected about face and started walking east.

Sherlock took another two steps before he noticed he was walking alone. Taken aback, he swung around and hurried to catch John up, when he heard him saying, 'Not warmer, never warm, can't get warm, cold and quivering . . .'

'The flat is warm,' said Sherlock, reasoning.

'And thirsty. Always thirsty, but not . . . not for that.' His lips pulled down and his brow furrowed in consternation. 'Not that.'

'John, I'm going to get us a cab, and we're going to go hom—' He laid a hand on John's shoulder.

The man came to life.

He twisted his shoulder away from the touch, and with his opposite hand pushed Sherlock away with such force it felt like he had been punched in the chest. There was power in the body and fighting anger in the eyes that Sherlock had not seen in him since his return, and it electrified him with fear and wonder and hope. Nevertheless, he hadn't been expecting to be on the receiving end of it. He stepped back, and John did the same, creating a stretch of pavement between them.

John's breath came in visible swells and audible huffs as he breathed loudly through his nose. He moved the cane for balance. 'No cabs.'

He should have guessed; no, he should have known. _I shouldn't have left him, not for anything_, he thought, imagining more clearly, now, how John must have reacted, finding himself alone in the back of a cab for the first time since his abduction. However rational or irrational, the memory would have been enough to provoke the threat of it happening again. So of course he had fled.

'No cabs,' Sherlock agreed.

John nodded stiffly and began walking again. This time, Sherlock walked a step behind and just within John's periphery.

He calculated quickly. They were now heading north, apparently to cross into North London by the bridge. Even by the most direct route, they were still four-and-a-half miles from Baker Street. John might have been running on adrenaline now, but it wouldn't last him much longer, and he'd begin feeling the pain in his leg before long, if he wasn't already. Besides, the temperature was hovering around freezing, maybe a little under, and the sun was still hours away from warming the sky. Even maintaining this pace—which he knew they couldn't—the walk would take the rest of the night. Neither the buses nor the tube was running yet, and a cab was out of the question.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

_London Bridge. Three  
minutes.  
SH_

As they walked the point-three miles remaining until they reached the bridge, Sherlock noticed John's limp getting worse and worse—his body demanded that he slow, but John wasn't obeying. He watched John's breath rise as fog in the streetlamps: quick huffs, short breaths. Each exhalation was coming in shorter intervals and smaller volume, characteristic not of exertion but of hyperventilation. If this kept on, his system would quickly deplete its carbon dioxide levels, and he knew what would come next, having witnessed John experience symptoms of a panic attack many times before, too many: headache, dizziness, chest pains. His mind and body were perilously juxtaposed. The one urged him to flee; the other pleaded that he rest. But it was the body that was yielding, and if Sherlock did nothing, both would fall together.

They reached the bridge and started across. Sherlock now walked at his side, prepared to steady him if the dizziness set in. He floundered for something to say, something distracting but innocuous, to sway John away from the brink.

But John Watson had become an unpredictable entity. Of his own volition, he came to an abrupt stop; his breathing went from rapid and shallow to deep and laboured. Sherlock stopped, too, stood at arms' length, and faced him squarely.

'John?'

'I thought I saw him,' said John, staring at the pavement between Sherlock's feet.

'Who?'

He closed his eyes and held his breath. Then he spoke. 'Daz.'

Sherlock took an apprehensive half step closer. 'Where?'

'There. At the crime scene. Just after Anderson . . .' He couldn't voice it. He screwed up his face and looked away, over the water. 'I blinked, and there he was. Standing just over your shoulder.' He shook his head in dejection. 'I ran.'

Now Sherlock understood. Another hallucination. Another damned intrusive image.

'But you would have seen him, right? If he had been real? You would have noticed.'

Sherlock nodded slightly but reassuringly. 'Not real, John. He wasn't there.'

John hung his head. His fingers were bloodless around the grip of the cane; the other clenched and unclenched at his side. 'I knew he couldn't have been,' he said softly. He inhaled long and loud through his nose, straightening. 'I can't make it to Baker Street, Sherlock. But I can't take a cab. I just can't.'

The apologetic tone, the shame-filled eyes, made Sherlock want to strangle something—Anderson, preferably. He parted his lips to reassure him, but at that moment he saw headlights in the distance, drawing nearer.

'Fortunately for us both, John, we are not without friends.'

John followed his gaze, and when he saw the car, he tensed. But Sherlock was ready:

'Lestrade,' he said. 'Rather good timing, too.'

John turned back, a look of fresh alarm in his eyes. 'Don't tell him what I saw.'

'Wouldn't dream of it.'

The car overtook them and rolled to a stop, brake lights aglow. The driver's side door popped open, and Lestrade jumped out, looking anxious. A question was on his lips, but Sherlock gave him a hard stare and quick motion of the head, and he swallowed it.

'Ah, inspector,' he said. 'I see you are on your way home. Swinging by Baker Street?'

Baker Street was decidedly _not _en route to his own home, or even to the Yard, but Lestrade cottoned on quickly. 'Of course.'

Sherlock opened the back door for John. To his consternation, however, John just stood there, staring at the empty back seat. Then he nodded, not in gratitude but resignation, and he stepped into the car. Sherlock circled around to the other side, 'Quickest route, Lestrade,' before opening his own door.

During the short ride to Baker Street, not a word was spoken.

* * *

He sighed into the phone and ran a hand through his hair, feeling the oils grease the skin between his fingers. 'I don't know if I can do that again.'

'Hush, you're doing fine. You did well.'

'I thought he was going to kill me.'

'Nonsense. He didn't even touch you. No harm done.'

'No harm? I've been suspended for three days. Three days! For one harmless quip! Plus a mark on my permanent record. And after that, two weeks doing desk work and sensitivity training. I'm not_ allowed_ in the field. I'm to be nowhere near this case. That's not even to mention all the looks I'm getting—'

'Stop your whinging. I told you, you did _well_. You found his pressure point.'

'Pressure point?'

There was a sigh of exasperation. 'John Watson, of course. Should have been obvious from the start. Insult Holmes all you want, he'll barely flinch and just toss the invectives back. But so much as give Watson a dirty look . . .'

'From ice to fire in a blink of an eye, I know, I've seen it more times than I like to think about. Right then. That's enough, is it? That's all you need?'

A pause. 'It's not that simple. You need to do it again. You didn't push it hard enough.'

'_Hard_ enough?'

'Not much of a reaction, really.'

'I _told_ you the look he gave me. There was murder in his eyes, I could see it!'

'All I got from you was that you ragged his boyfriend and he went crying to daddy to sort it out. There's no story in that.'

'But—'

'Holmes needs to be exposed as the sort of violent and dangerous man he is.'

'Of all the things he is, he's not stupid. He's not about to attack me in full view of a dozen officers.'

'We need witnesses, darling. And I'm willing to wager that he's not as stable as you give him credit for. You push that pressure point _hard_, and he'll snap, police or no police. But do yourself a favour—don't let Daddy Detective overhear you this time, eh? Do try to be a _little _discreet.'

He worried his lips between his teeth, unable to answer. He wondered whether his pounding heartbeat could be heard through the phone.

'Don't _fret_. People will realise you were right about him all along in the end. You'll expose him _again_, and heroes are seldom chastised for their three-day suspensions earned in opposing villains. They're applauded.'

'I suppose you're right.'

'Of course I am. Now don't call again until I've got my story.'

* * *

As days went around Baker Street anymore, this was a bad one.

They returned to the flat with an hour left before dawn. Though both were accountably exhausted, neither tried to sleep. John went instantly into the kitchen to put the kettle on, and Sherlock, wondering whether this was one of those situations where he should give John his space or whether they ought to try to talk about . . . _it_ . . . pulled out his laptop and settled himself at the kitchen table, his way of finding the middle ground between two uncertain courses of action—he wouldn't broach conversation, but he made himself available for it. Once, he had had John to model or outright instruct him in how to behave in uncomfortable or sensitive circumstances; but now that such circumstances were, at their core, _about _John, he fumbled.

An unspoken rule existed in 221B: Sherlock and John _dealt_ with John's condition; they never talked about. Not directly. John didn't like being asked how he was feeling, or whether he'd taken his medication, or whether he'd dreamt last night, or why he wasn't seeing a therapist. Doing so—as both Mrs Hudson and Lestrade learnt early on—was a sure-fire way of rendering him incommunicative at best, infuriated at worst. It was the quickest way to sour a level mood and topple a stable emotional plane. And it always invited tension into the flat. Not that there wasn't enough of that regardless.

So they didn't talk. Sherlock missed the way they once had. He missed John's easy laughter. He missed his no-nonsense handling of Sherlock's eccentricities. He missed the companionable air and unspoken but complete understanding of one another. He missed—

The thought never fully formed because he wouldn't let it: Sherlock missed John.

After a few minutes' shuffling about, John set a cup of tea at Sherlock's right elbow. Black, two sugars.

'Thank you,' said Sherlock. He tapped the side of the cup with his fingertips to gauge its temperature. Another ninety seconds to let it cool. He returned to the laptop where he was researching hemlock. Was it even important that it was _hemlock?_ Might it have been clovers or nightshade or bluets or bulbous buttercups? Why the rose petal? Still too many questions. The poisonous element of the flower might have been a red herring, or it might have been the key to the puzzle. _Was_ there a puzzle? Had the flowers been _placed _there? Or had the victim for some unfathomable reason put them there himself. This seemed least likely. Maybe this was actually a matter of botany: Jefferies had been placed in a tree, a horse chestnut. _This_ victim had been carrying flowers. Or, equally plausible, Sherlock was grasping at straws.

He scrolled and clicked a few more pages, then sipped from the tea and set it on his left-hand side.

Lost in thought, he didn't notice John again until when, several minutes later, John set a second cup of tea at his elbow, as he had the first.

He looked at it in surprise, then turned on the stool to observe the kitchen counter. Two pots, two brews, and four unfilled teacups. John was at that moment reaching into the cupboard for numbers five and six.

'Thank you, John,' Sherlock said again, uncertainly, 'though I haven't quite finished my first cup.'

John turned at the sound of his voice. A dazed look lifted from his face like a gossamer veil as his eyes found and settled on the two full cups already on the table, both steaming. 'Oh,' he said. 'I didn't realise you'd already made tea.'

'I—' He bit his tongue, taken aback. Did he really not remember? He switched tracks. 'Did you want one?' He noticed that John had not poured himself anything from either brew.

'I don't take sugar,' said John, though with an air of confusion, as if he weren't sure if this was true. He stepped away from the kitchen and into the sitting room, where the first grey lights of dawn rested against the windows. He pulled the curtains closed.

For the rest of the morning, John moved restlessly, room to room. He stared at an open search window on his laptop for twenty minutes without touching the keyboard; he stood at the edge of each window, curtain pulled back slightly, and monitored the activity on the street below and in the building across the way; and he wandered back and forth between flat and landing as though waiting for someone or expecting to see something different each time he came back. It was driving Sherlock crazy, but mostly because he didn't understand it.

After Sherlock cleared away the evidence of the first two pots of tea and re-established himself in the sitting room, John set about making a third, and like before, he poured a cup for Sherlock and none for himself. Sherlock accepted the cup with wide, worried eyes that John failed to observe before hobbling back into the kitchen and looking around in bewilderment as though he had misplaced something or forgotten why he had gone in there. Then, without touching a thing, he continued on to the hallway bathroom where, seconds later, Sherlock heard him start the shower.

Shucking off all pretence of unconcern, Sherlock put aside his study of hemlock and opened new search windows. He had already spent countless hours researching John's condition, everything from PTSD to rape trauma syndrome, phobias to panic attacks, mood swings to hypervigilance, and how he might best help someone who refused to see a professional therapist. But maybe there was something he had missed, something that could help him now.

He was in the middle of revising new literature that linked suppression, dissociation, and bewilderment when his phone sounded in his pocket.

'Sherlock Holmes,' he said.

'We've got a positive ID on the victim,' said Lestrade.

_Holden_, thought Sherlock.

'Name was Holden O'Harris. Age thirty-five, originally from Shepherd's Bush. And you were right: he worked as practice nurse at a GP surgery in West London. They sacked him almost three years ago—five months before he lost his flat—because he came to work high on heroin. A habit he never broke, evidently.'

'He was high when he died.'

'Yeah. Traces of heroin in blood, urine, and hair. And—I probably don't even need to say it—no evidence of hemlock poisoning.'

Sherlock already knew it and didn't deign to respond to that point. 'And DNA? Tell me some _good_ news, Lestrade.'

'Still waiting on the lab results for that one. But don't worry. Molly found ample samplings of . . . everything. We'll have conclusive proof soon.'

'How soon?'

'Next few hours soon.'

'I'll come down to Bart's. I'd like a second look at . . .' But he stopped. He couldn't leave Baker Street, not right now, not without . . . And there was slim chance John would want to come. Even if he did, Sherlock knew it wouldn't be a good . . . 'On second thought, text me the results when you get them.'

Lestrade correctly interpreted the pause. 'How is he?'

'Resting.'

He heard John kill the shower.

'I asked _how_—'

'Fine. He's fine.'

'I can't even begin to say how sorry—'

'Don't bother.'

'I've put Anderson on suspension and gave him a strong reprimand—'

'Doesn't matter.' _Besides_, he thought, _it was a lot of things, not only Anderson. None of us did right by John, me least of all_.

'Maybe it was a mistake, this contract business.'

Sherlock huffed a sigh of irritation. 'It's done. It's signed. We'll just have to be more—'

His breath caught: from the bathroom came a loud crash and the sound of tinkling glass.

Without saying goodbye, he ended the call and jumped up from the chair. 'John?' he called as he passed through the flat. When he reached the bathroom door, he half expected it to be locked; but the handle turned. Before he pushed in, he announced himself. 'John, it's me. I'm coming in.' He waited half a breath longer and entered.

His first step inside the bathroom brought his shoed foot down on a fragment of glass. The tiles were scattered with them like shards of ice; the rest had ended up in the sink or still hung in the frame of the mirror. He found John standing against the wall, half hidden behind the open door. His head was bowed and eyes shielded with one hand; his other trembled and dripped blood at his side.

'Oh god,' said Sherlock, stepping swiftly over the glass to lift John's right hand by the arm for examining. John didn't pull away, didn't so much as flinch. But he couldn't tell much. The thick blood spreading over the knuckles and down the fingers obscured the severity of the cuts. 'Kitchen sink,' he said. 'Come on.' He steered an awkwardly pliant John out of the bathroom and back to the kitchen.

John hissed when the cold water from the tap hit his skin, but he didn't pull away. He even let Sherlock roll his sleeve halfway up to his elbow and pull the largest slivers of mirror out of his skin. This acquiescence was almost as unnerving as the repeated tea making or vomiting behind a lorry; he barely knew what to do with it and was almost certain he would do wrongly.

He twisted off the tap and wrapped John's hand in a tea towel. 'Sit,' he directed, now steering him to the table. Then he went to fetch the first-aid kit, fill a bowl with warm water, and grab a bottle of paracetamol and a glass of water. Sitting opposite John, he instructed him to take the painkillers, then pulled his hand halfway across the table and opened the towel. Already, though the tea towel was soaked red, the blood flow had lessened considerably. Sherlock took John's hand in his own and counted the cuts—seven of notable length, and several more minor nicks and scratches.

'Anything broken?' he asked.

John shook his head no and balled his hand to prove it before relaxing it again in Sherlock's. But when Sherlock prodded a little more with his thumbs, John sucked in air through his nose and sat up straighter. Sherlock cocked a sceptical eyebrow, but John shook his head emphatically. 'Just tender,' he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

'Still. An x-ray would tell us for sure—'

'No. No hospitals. It's fine. I didn't hit it that hard.'

_The mirror wasn't just cracked,_ Sherlock thought. _It was shattered._ But he kept it inside a closed mouth.

He pulled out his magnifying glass and rotated John's hand at the wrist slowly, clockwise, anticlockwise, occasionally wiping fresh blood away with the towel to search for other slivers of glass, which he extracted with a pair of tweezers and set on a Petri dish that happened to be nearby. While he worked, he noted the slight, irregular curve of John's little finger where the break hadn't set quite right. He also took the excuse to surreptitiously inspect the mean-looking scar on John's wrist, a remnant of the wire cuffs, which John had so diligently tried to hide from him over the past eleven weeks. He resisted a tactile examination of the dark pink, raised skin.

'I read,' John said as Sherlock performed his inspection, 'that they put more than ten units of blood in me that night.'

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in surprise—John almost never even alluded to either his time in captivity or the immediate aftermath. Whenever he did, it was never in direct reference to himself: never an _I _or a _me_ was spoken. This was important—_was it important? It felt important_—but John continued on placidly, staring at his injured hand, and Sherlock contained any greater reaction on his own part to follow suit.

'I'd already lost quite a lot, even before I was shot.' His voice shook a little, but only a little. He swallowed. 'They had to replace more than fifty percent of my blood volume within six hours. A massive transfusion. All donor blood, of course. Strangers who didn't even know . . . Kind of makes me wonder whose blood I'm spilling now.'

Satisfied with the cleanliness of the cuts, Sherlock unscrewed the cap on the bottle of surgical spirit and wetted a cloth. 'A red blood cell passes through the heart every forty-five seconds,' he said. He gently tapped the stinging cloth against the wounds. John winced with only the first dab. 'Your heart. Within a minute, all that new blood belonged to you.' He raised his eyes to meet John's. 'Any donor DNA from white blood cells would have disappeared within seven days anyway. This is all_ you_.'

'I know,' said John. 'Just doesn't feel like it.'

'What do you mean?'

'Nothing.'

As Sherlock began to dress the wound, winding a bandage around the limp hand, he puzzled over this, and when he could come to no clear answer, he asked, 'Why did you punch the mirror, John?'

John's eyes flicked up from where Sherlock was working on his hand and fell away again just as quickly. 'I don't know.'

'What were you doing in the bathroom while the water ran? You weren't showering.'

The evidence was obvious: he hadn't changed clothes; he still wore his shoes; his hair was dry; the towels were dry; the air in the bathroom was not humid—he'd been running the water cold.

'You never _really _shower. Do you. Just spot cleaning. One area at a time. Is it so you don't have to undress? It's not unusual, John, for one to feel vulnerable, exposed, after—'

John suddenly pulled his hand away to finish securing the dressing himself.

'John,' said Sherlock again, steeling himself.

'Hm?' John responded, attention fixed on his hand.

'Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea . . .'

'I should put this on ice.'

'. . . to work through these anxieties . . .'

'Twenty minutes every couple of hours.' He rose from his chair and opened the freezer. 'Ward off any swelling, bruising. It's not broken. But.'

'Mycroft could help. He would know of some competent, discreet psychotherapists.'

John threw the freezer door back in place; the whole fridge shook. 'I'm _fine_, Sherlock.'

'The evidence speaks to the contrary.'

'If I _tell_ you I'm fine, I'm fine.'

'I'm not saying you're not handling things well, all things considered—'

'Just not well enough for _you_, is that it?'

Sherlock blinked. 'I didn't say—'

'That I'm more of a burden than you bargained for? You didn't have to. Should've let well enough alone then, eh? Then you wouldn't have to deal with this'—he gestured to himself, up and down, with a furious hand—'_mess_.'

'That's _not_ what I said, and you'll never hear me say it. All I'm saying is that a therapist may help you to—'

'_Help_ me? _I _help me. _I_ do, Sherlock. Not once has one of those quacks done a damn bit of good to help me with _any_thing. Not after mum died. Not after Afghanistan. Not after you d—' He stopped and shook his head in frustration. 'Why am I even telling you this? You of all people know how useless they are. I mean, look at _you!_ They didn't fix _you!_'

If John had slapped him, he wouldn't have been more astonished. The faces of Sherlock's six childhood psychiatrists flashed before his eyes, and he scowled. 'There was nothing wrong with me.'

'Oh, nothing wrong, that's a laugh. And Donovan calls you _freak_ because of your third eye and lobster hands, is that it?'

The unexpected vitriol left him stunned and without response, feeling no inclination to fight back. John was right, after all. About all of it. He had never given much credence to psychology, not after ten years of being shepherded from child shrink to child shrink in his mother's vain attempt to figure out what was wrong with her odd little boy. Six different diagnoses and six different treatments from six different therapists—all of them hacks. At fifteen, he had refused to go back. And oh, how Mummy cried. The way she looked at him after that . . . like he was the ghost of whom she had wanted to believe was her angel child. And she had always abhorred ghost stories.

'You don't trust me,' John said.

'I trust you more than anyone,' Sherlock countered. He was unable to follow John's train of thought—where were these accusations coming from?

'Except for Lestrade. And Molly. And _Mycroft_. And—'

'More than _anyone_,' he repeated.

'You didn't believe me when I said that I saw Daz.'

Sherlock laughed shortly and without humour. 'That was a dream. You didn't believe it either.' Why were they arguing this? They had already both agreed that the presence of the Slash Man had been impossible.

John snapped; all sense of reason and logic shattered like the mirror. '_Not_ a dream! I was awake! I was standing there!'

'An intrusive image, I mean. You've had them before, John.'

'I'm telling you, _I_ _saw him!_ He was _watching me!_'

Sherlock slowly stood. 'Then why couldn't _I _see him?'

'He was behind you, all the time behind you! If you had only turned your bloody head!' John's face was red with fury, his eyes glistening with betrayal.

'John, listen—' He took a deep breath, hardly believing he was siding with Donovan on this one. 'Maybe you should just . . . rest. Take a step back from this case—'

White spots appeared along John's jawline from where he clenched it so tightly in his rage. He snatched up a teacup from the countertop that he had earlier that day pulled from the cupboard, and hurled it at Sherlock's head. Sherlock ducked just in time, and it exploded into porcelain dust against the wall behind him.

'It's _my_ case, damn you! How dare you tell me . . . ? How dare you think I can't . . . ?'

'Because you're not well!' Sherlock shouted back.

John took a ragged breath that might have been a gasp for air, might have been a sob. 'I didn't _ask_ for this! Any of this! I didn't ask to be taken out of that box! I didn't ask you to leave me the key! What business was it of yours, what happened to me, Holmes? Why couldn't you have just stayed _dead?_'

He hurled another teacup, but this time with enervated strength; his aim was poor and didn't come anywhere near Sherlock's head, but it smashed all the same. Then he left the kitchen through the door to the landing. Next moment, Sherlock heard his uneven steps climbing the stairs to his room, and the door closed with a resounding crash.

Sherlock lowered his face into his hands, then dragged his nails roughly across his scalp, frustrated beyond release. _What the hell was that? _He realised his heart was racing. He shouldn't have said a word. Not a damn word. John had been trying to tell him something—hadn't he? Only Sherlock hadn't understood what. In his need to get to the heart of the matter at hand, the mirror, he had missed something greater.

He waited two minutes, then stood, filled a bowl with ice and fetched a clean tea towel, and ascended the stairs. He knocked.

'John?'

'Piss off,' he heard beyond the door.

Sherlock complied. But first, he set the bowl on the floor, loud enough to be sure John would hear it. 'Ten minutes before the ice melts,' he said through the door. Then he retreated to the first floor. There, in the sitting room, he threw open the curtains to let some January light into that winter-cloaked room. Only then, as if the light were air, did he feel as though he could breathe again. At last, he set about to clear away the shards of shattered mirror, to wipe down the kitchen table, and to think.

* * *

They didn't speak much more the rest of the day. John reappeared when he needed more ice, then again when he needed a glass of water. He spent some time sitting in his chair with the telly on, but he clearly wasn't paying any attention to the BBC News at Six. Sherlock, however, kept an ear cocked for any mention of O'Harris' murder, which never came up. He also kept waiting for a text from Lestrade, confirming Darren Hirsch as the killer. That also never came.

Mrs Hudson showed up at seven with dinner—lentil soup and sourdough bread—and though neither of them mentioned the broken mirror or their earlier row, she did notice John's wrapped hand and sensed something amiss. But her query about his hand was answered with barely a shrug and three words: _just a cut_. Then he hid his hand in his lap and continued pushing beans around in his bowl, not eating. He hadn't eaten a thing all day, and just that morning he had emptied his stomach of whatever he'd managed the day before. His skin colour was off, his eyes glassy. Sherlock might have been concerned about dehydration, except that, as always, John had been drinking tap water liberally throughout the day, like a man dying in the desert coming upon an oasis.

After dinner, John resumed his place in his chair but didn't even reach for the remote control or pick up a book to feign distraction. He just sat, and stared into nothingness. Mrs Hudson removed the copious leftovers to the fridge and tidied up a bit in the kitchen. When she began to wash dishes at the sink, Sherlock joined her to help dry.

As they worked side by side, with the tap still running, Mrs Hudson elbowed him gently in the ribs to pull him out of his dark, absorbing thoughts, and when he looked down at her, she nodded to John with concern in her eyes. _Bad day?_ she mouthed, and Sherlock held up four fingers—it was their silent code on a scale of one to five. She frowned and shook her head mournfully. He returned his attention to the drying, but soon she was patting his arm insistently to recapture it to herself. She indicated John again, then mimed playing the violin. He shook his head emphatically, thinking it wasn't a good time, that John wouldn't appreciate such a blatant attempt at appeasing his despondency, but she urged him. _Go on, then_, she mouthed. She took the towel out of his hands and turned back to finish the washing-up on her own.

In the end, he decided that doing nothing was more maddening, so he obeyed her direction and walked lightly, cautiously, into the sitting room, passing in front of John to reach his case. In his peripheral vision, he watched for any signs of objection as he lifted the instrument, golden-wood shining in the firelight, and strummed the strings with his little finger, but John gave no response whatsoever. Once he decided it was well enough in tune, he tucked the violin beneath his chin and began to play a variation on Brahms because, once upon a time, John had expressed a particular liking for his Brahms. Again, no overt reaction. But he kept John in the corner of his eye as he played and moved around the room, filling the air with the sweetest strains he knew how to render.

The effect may have been missed by eyes less keen than his, but Sherlock observed it all clearly: the way the lines disappeared from John's forehead; the way his shoulders transformed from squared to rounded; the way the tensed muscles in his chest and arms and legs melted into the chair; the way his breathing deepened and steadied. It had been the right call—not a cure, but a salve, temporary, yes, but soothing all the same. Like honey in his tea.

Mrs Hudson flicked off the kitchen light, softening the atmosphere in the flat; the fire in the hearth cast the room in a tempered red glow. She stepped to John's side where she sat herself on the armrest of his chair. As she listened to the sighing vibrato emanating from Sherlock's violin, she rested a hand on John's shoulder. When it seemed he had accepted her touch, she reached down, took his bandaged hand, and rested it in her lap, where she gave his fingers a tender squeeze. She lightly caressed the exposed skin of his thumb with her own. Though it was almost imperceptible, Sherlock noticed that, after a moment, John tightened his fingers around hers and held on.

They continued that way in congenial silence a few minutes more, while the euphonious narrative swelled and diminished and coloured the air with its mellifluous measures, until at last Mrs Hudson arose. Before returning to her own flat, however, she kissed John on the top of the head, brushed her fingers through his hair with soothing strokes, and whispered words so low that Sherlock almost missed them: 'We're here, love.' Just that. There were no empty assertions that things weren't as bad as they seemed, no assurances of a better day tomorrow, no promises that might be broken or lies that would quickly show their cracks. Just a simple truth, and though John made her no response, neither did he reject her words in expression or body language. Instead, when she had gone, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Sherlock thought he saw, from the corner of his eye, a line of wet on John's cheek, shining in the firelight.

Sherlock continued to play, twenty minutes more, thirty minutes more, forty, afraid to stop and break the spell of tranquillity cast by each downward stroke of the bow. He had transitioned to a nocturne, his own take on Chopin's Nocturne Op 9. The music was transformative—the dreadful, choking disquiet had dissipated, and the air was breathable. Time and space curled away: the broken mirror was miles off in the distance, the dead body of Holden O'Harris, years. And the horrors of the convent belonged to other men's lives, not theirs. _Now_ was a different plane of being, floating on a stradavarian wind. _Now_ was a warm hearth and a violin invoking a serenade to the night, and nothing existed beyond.

Then, with the force of a lightning strike, the harmonies shattered.

For the third time that day, Sherlock's ears rang with the sound of shrieking glass, and in that very instant his violin exploded in his hands. He gave a cry of alarm and jumped backward, dropping the bow even as fragments of wood and dust showered down on him and the sprung strings curled at his feet.

He whirled, angling toward the window, and saw a single hole in a pane that was split like a spider's web. He moved forward to investigate the scene on the street, but he hadn't taken even a full step toward the window when he felt himself tackled to the ground even as another explosion rocked the air and glass flew like rain in a gale. He landed hard on his back and the wind rushed out of his lungs. He gasped but couldn't regain his breath: John's weight was crushing his ribcage.

'John!' he cried without air.

John's only response was to wrap his arms tightly around Sherlock's head as a shield.

He could feel John's heart racing wildly as though a shot of adrenaline had been injected directly into the susceptible, aching muscle. It pounded against Sherlock's own chest and resounded throughout his entire body until it ached in his head and down to his ankles and he couldn't distinguish his own throbbing heartbeats from John's.

But something more was wrong: John's breathing came in rapid, shallow bursts next to his ear; he felt the muscles of John's diaphragm clench and shudder in irregular patterns with each torturous breath; and he wasn't responding to his own name. With the shattering of the window, John had been thrown into instant and gripping panic.

And there were Mrs Hudson's hurried steps, ascending the stairs.

Bracing himself with one bent leg, Sherlock encircled John in his arms, heaved, and rolled, pushing John off of him and easing his back to the floor just as Mrs Hudson appeared in the doorway, already in her nightdress.

'Sherlock! I heard a terrible noise! Sounded like—'

'Gunshots. Two of them, straight through the window,' said Sherlock, kneeling over John, who had begun to hyperventilate in earnest. He scratched at Sherlock's arms as though seeking something to hold onto.

'Oh lord!'

'We're not hurt.'

'But John—?'

'Panic attack. I've got him. Call Lestrade.'

'Will he be all right? I can ring for an ambulance.'

'Lestrade, now!'

As she fled back to her flat to use the landline, he called after her, 'Keep away from the windows!'

John writhed on the floor, unable to breathe. His face was purpling, and his eyes were wide with fear. 'Breathe, John,' said Sherlock, infusing his voice with a steadiness he did not feel. He took John's head in both hands and tried to get his eyes to refocus on him. 'Calm. Breathe. We're okay. We're okay.'

But whatever reality was before John's vision, Sherlock wasn't part of it. His eyes were fixed with terror on a spot past Sherlock's right ear. He continued to scratch at Sherlock's arms and pull his sleeves into his fists as tears of fear spilt from the corners of his eyes and into his hairline. He was entirely unable to draw air—it was as if his lungs had collapsed. The muscles in his neck were strained like taut ropes, and a pronounced vein in his forehead broke out in sweat.

'All right, all right, I've got you,' said Sherlock as he pulled John's upper body off the floor, nearly into a sitting position. He situated himself behind him, kneeling low, and pulled John in close so that his own chest and stomach pressed against John's back. Then he wrapped his arms securely around John's torso: one hand splayed against John's chest, the other over his diaphragm. John's head fell back, weak against Sherlock's right shoulder, so he spoke directly into his left ear: 'Feel my breaths. Breathe with me, John.'

He inhaled slowly, letting John feel his lungs expand and fill with air as he pushed out his stomach into John's back, a breath held low and full. He held it for two counts, and steadily exhaled.

John twisted and jerked involuntarily in his struggle for air; his left hand came around to grip Sherlock's arm above the elbow, and he hung on with bruising strength.

'Breathe in with me. One, two, three, four, five. Hold.'

John tried. Each breath drawing up his chest and throat sounded like the teeth of a hacksaw against rough wood. But when Sherlock heard a short sob escape John's throat, the tightness in his own chest lessened—John had at least enough air to cry.

'Good. Good. Now breathe out. One, two, three, four, five. You're breathing with me, John. You're okay. Nice and slow. Breathe in. One, two . . .'

He coached him, guided him, and as the seconds wound round and round the clock, John's own breathing began to match his. It was a labour, but as the oxygen returned to his bloodstream, to his brain, he began to calm. Even so, John's grip on Sherlock's arm didn't slacken in the slightest. Sherlock held him just as firmly in return, an assurance that he was there. Amidst the ruin of the once-beloved violin, they sat together, breathed together, even as Mrs Hudson returned and the reflection of distant blue and red lights first flashed against the broken glass of the window.


	10. Work of the Hidden Menace

**CHAPTER 10: WORK OF THE HIDDEN MENACE**

**SATURDAY–FRIDAY, JANUARY 10–16, 2015**

The bullets they dug out of the ceiling were .476 calibre Enfields; two spent cartridges were found in the street. Ballistics experts down at the Yard agreed they must have come from an Enfield revolver. An antique, then.

'So not Moran,' said Mycroft.

'Not Moran,' said Sherlock.

Fingertips pressed together, he tilted his head back and looked up at the ceiling's two new holes from where he stretched out in his chair. He'd already spent considerable time examining them, in addition to their trajectories through the window, and with the two paths together, he knew precisely where the shooter had been standing on the street when he looked up, saw Sherlock through the parted curtain, took aim, and fired.

Two shots: each spoke volumes. The first said the shooter wasn't an especially practised shot to begin with. He had missed. (He? Probably. Statistically.) It stood to reason that he had had very little by way of professional training, nor very extensive practice at firing a weapon. That, or he had been especially nervous. Despite being evidently homicidal, the shooter was likely unaccustomed to violent acts. To begin with, the gun itself suggested that the firearm was a family heirloom—it probably hadn't fired at anything in decades.

Nevertheless, the would-be killer had been the determined sort, and that's where the second shot had come from. Seeing that he had failed to take out his target with the first pull of the trigger, he'd made a second attempt. After all, he had come to Baker Street with the express purpose of finishing a very specific job. He might even believe he had succeeded. After all, as he had fired the second round, the target had collapsed.

And that's what Sherlock was now thinking about now—how, if John had not tackled him to the floorboards, he would have followed through with his impulse: to check the street for where the shot had come from. A suicidal instinct, sometimes, his compulsion to investigate. But then, there was John, whose own instincts had anticipated the second shot and thrown him inexorably into action. If not for John, Sherlock's blood and brains would even now be joined with the two bullets in marring Mrs Hudson's ceiling.

Every time he thought of this, his blood quickened in his veins, and he marvelled at John's capacity. Yet, at the same time, he quailed, for John, seeing the violin blasted apart, had in that instant believed Sherlock had been shot, and it nearly undid him.

'A hired hit, do you think?' suggested Lestrade.

'A deplorable hit man, if that was in fact the case,' said Mycroft, and Sherlock sensed his derision had less to do with the idea of an assassin and more to do with Lestrade's failure to recognise the folly in thinking that a _hit man_ would use an Enfield revolver. A poor deduction. Mycroft didn't say this but continued with his sardonic humour. 'I do hope he wasn't paid up front.'

Lestrade pulled a face of disapproval at the levity with which Mycroft Holmes was treating an assassination attempt on his own blood. 'What I'm saying is, you're right, Moran didn't take the shot. But he might have instructed one of his people.'

'It wasn't Moran,' Sherlock repeated, leaning forward and looking at Lestrade like a teacher tired of repeating himself. 'It's not his style at all.'

'His _style?_'

'Look. If Moran wanted me dead, I'd be dead. He would have shot me himself in the basement of the convent and been done with it. But he's a sadist. And it's not just physical torture that excites him. He's a _mental_ terrorist. It's psychological. Nothing thrills him more. A quick bullet to the brain would be too quick, too easy, even too _clean_ for him. No, he'll build up to it, induce fear and paranoia, play his little game of psychological teasing, until something in here'—he tapped the side of his head—'snaps. _Then_ he'll strike.'

'Cheers,' said Lestrade tiredly, falling back onto the sofa and conceding the point. 'Not Moran, then. Fine. Then it might have been just about anybody. Half of London would see you dead.'

'And the papers are working hard on the other half,' Mycroft concurred glibly.

He was referencing that morning's headliner in _The_ _Times_: 'Vigilante makes failed attempt on life of recently acquitted malefactor Sherlock Holmes.' But _The_ _Times_ wasn't the only one painting his name in red and lauding the actions—however unsuccessful—of the unknown assailant. _The Daily Telegraph_ called the shooter a 'would-be hero'; _The Daily Star _characterised him as a 'neighbourhood watchdog'; and Kitty Riley of _The Sun_ went so far as to compare him to Claus von Stauffenberg, Violet Gibson, and the New York City Guardian Angels. All highly inaccurate comparisons, and Sherlock was especially unappreciative of being the dictators and violent criminals in Ms Riley's colourful analogies.

'It is London's loss,' she wrote, 'that we may never know the true identity of this dauntless seeker of retribution.'

Her words crowned the would-be killer with laurels and disguised her underlying petition to drop the search so that the unknown criminal might not face the hand of the law that would indict him with illegal possession of a firearm and _attempted murder_. Her call, however, was in vain. The police were taking the shooting seriously. Nevertheless, it still caused Sherlock to sneer at what she was trying to incite. As if the people still had the power to release Barabbas.

The people? Maybe not. But the media . . .

'Sherlock, are you listening to me?'

'Are you still here?'

Mycroft's frown lines grew more pronounced. 'I simply renewed my insistence, in light of last night's _event_, that you remove yourself to a place of _safety_, for the duration.'

Sherlock's hands fell down upon the armrests like bricks, and he cast his brother an accomplished look of utmost scorn. '_Leave London?_'

'Of course leave London! Leave England! With a sadist having sworn vengeance against you and half the city calling for your blood, it's the most sensible course of action.'

'I won't run.'

'Why not? You have before.'

Lestrade winced, but Sherlock glared. 'I can't. You _know_ what will happen if I do. Besides, my work is here.'

'_What_ work, Sherlock? No, Greg, don't you leap to defend him. I know about your little arrangement. The one that thrusts John back into the house of horror just so my little brother gets to have another go at playing detective. What were either of you _thinking?_'

'It was my mistake, and I take full respons—' Lestrade began, but Sherlock seemed to have forgotten he was at all a part of the conversation and rode over him.

'I was _thinking_, Mycroft, that John wanted a hand in taking down the bastards that did this to him. It was his choice.'

'John's choices are questionable at best. He's not about to admit that this is all too much for him. If a child fears water because he nearly drowned in it, you do _not_ throw him back into the sea and expect him to keep his chin above the surface, no matter how much he insists he can swim! You drive _inland_ and take him to a psychiatrist.'

'What, kicking and screaming?'

'If need be.'

'Wonderful. Now you're going to play mum to _him_, too.'

'_If need be_. One of us has to, and lord knows it won't be you. You're not good for him, Sherlock.'

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet in one fluid motion. 'You need to leave,' he said. He turned his back on them both and faced the hearth. There, he occupied himself with the scroll from his shattered violin, the largest in-tact piece he had found. He had set it on the mantelpiece as a keepsake of sorts—the rest had found its way into the bin. He lifted it now and rolled it around in his hand. 'Both of you,' he said.

'Sherlock—' Lestrade protested.

'When John wakes up, I want you both gone.' He pocketed the scroll and made a brusque departure to his bedroom where he would be able to hear John better through the ceiling of his room.

Mycroft and Lestrade were left alone in the sitting room. An uncomfortable silence descended. Then:

'It's hard on him, too, you know,' said Lestrade.

Mycroft sighed, staring at the tip of a polished shoe at the end of one long leg, crossed over the other. 'You'll forgive me if I'm not feeling entirely sympathetic.'

'He's the one who almost died last night. Twice. I don't think he's had time to, you know, process that. Not in light of the, erm, aftermath.'

'You mean John.'

'Christ, Mycroft, the panic symptoms lasted for hours, and Sherlock said he'd been showing signs of high anxiety all day already. It was hardly helped by the team of police I had swarming the place, inside the flat, outside the flat. And each time I looked over into the kitchen, I saw John there, white as a corpse, unable to stop shaking, and looking to be on the verge of tears but refusing, I don't know, refusing to break. And not once, not for a second, did Sherlock leave his side. Normally, he'd be flying around the place like an agitated bat in a box, deducing this, insulting that, and I'd have to shout at him to stay out of our hair. But not last night. He stayed at John's side, keeping him calm, steadying him when he had to, filling and refilling his glass with water. The thirst just wouldn't go away. Neither man had slept for some twenty-four hours—Sherlock _still _hasn't—and John would be up even now if Sherlock hadn't finally made him swallow those Benzodiazepine tablets before literally walking him up the stairs to his room to put him to bed . . .'

'He should have been taken to hospital.'

'John doesn't feel safe in hospitals. He feels safe in this flat. Even after the bricks that have flown through the windows, the _bullets_, he feels safe here. Because Sherlock is here. When he gets into states like that, when he can't think in a straight line, when he can't remember why he's angry at him, he needs Sherlock near at hand.'

'You've been watching closely, haven't you, inspector?' It was a wry observation, not praise.

'You're the one who asked me to.' Lestrade stood, intent on respecting Sherlock's wishes that they leave. 'Don't forget: I'm with them more than you are, Mycroft. I've seen more than you have. An hour's observation doesn't compare.'

* * *

Over the course of the next seven nights, whenever he could manage to fall asleep, Sherlock dreamt of finding John in the freezer, kneeling over him, and pressing a scalpel into his flesh to add another ragged _IOU_ to his already bloody back. Every night, he awoke in a cold sweat and with a racing heart, which he couldn't pacify until he crept to the sitting room with its now-boarded windows to ascertain whether John was all right.

And every night, John slept fitfully, his own unspoken dreams adding their own torment to his midnight hours. If they seemed bad enough, Sherlock woke him with lights and noises, never touches; if they were mild but persistent, he tried to alter them by inserting his own voice and calming narrative until John's limbs stopped writhing and his face smoothed out and his breathing settled; otherwise, he just stayed close, waiting for John to awaken on his own, allowing him to get every precious minute of sleep his exhausted mind and body demanded.

But it was that first night—the night following the shooting, after all the police and Mycroft had gone, and quiet was restored to 221B—that kept weighing on Sherlock's mind.

He himself had not slept in nearly two days, and he could feel the fatigue wearing on his mental faculties. There was so much to think about, and he was having trouble keeping things compartmentalised—the hunt for Moran, the first murder, the second murder, the shooting, John, _bloody_ Mycroft—and properly ordered. Four hours, he thought, would be enough to refresh things. So after John had fallen asleep once again on the sofa (it still perplexed Sherlock why he preferred it to his own bed) and without the aid of sleeping tablets, Sherlock undressed and fell straightway into bed. One minute later, he was fast asleep and dreaming of the freezer . . .

He awoke feeling nauseous, overheated, and shaky. Knowing he was unlikely to fall back to sleep, he sat up, turned on the bedside lamp, and groaned into his hands, trying to dispel the gruesome images that still swam before his face. He needed to clear his head at least a little before rising to check on John.

But it was while he sat there, with his back against the headboard, knees drawn up, and fingers fisting his curls, that there came the low, slow creak of the door. He lifted his head. Through the yawning doorway, John entered, limping, because instead of his cane he held the first-aid kit in his hands. He shuffled forward on shoeless feet, head cocked to one side, eyes downcast and glassy. Sherlock had seen this from John once before, and he added anxiety to his nausea.

'John,' he said, voice barely above a whisper, 'are you awake?'

John didn't answer. He came to a stop at the foot of the bed and rested his weight on his good leg. Motionless now, like a video set to pause, he appeared to be staring at the duvet, but Sherlock was fairly certain that he wasn't seeing it at all. Seconds passed while John just stood there and Sherlock contemplated the best course of action. This wasn't like before. John didn't seem distressed, didn't seem to believe he was in peril, and, fortunately, he didn't have the gun on him this time to imperil Sherlock. (Sherlock had been sensible enough to hide it before the police arrived, but John wouldn't go to sleep without knowing it had been returned to its place beneath the sofa.)

So did Sherlock let this play out? Or help him back to bed? He hadn't told John about the last sleepwalking incident for fear that it would depress him further, and he didn't know how far John could sink before he was lost entirely to that black ocean.

Before he could reason through things, John seemed to reach a decision himself. He moved closer, sat himself on the edge of Sherlock's mattress, placed the kit at his side, and opened it. His hand began to rummage around in it, searching for something, but his eyes weren't even focused there; they were cast sidelong to the floor.

Sherlock straightened out his legs and inclined toward the kit, the better to see what John was doing. That's when John put a hand on his chest and pushed him back to the headboard. 'You were shot,' he said. 'Take it easy.'

His voice was thick, gruff, unused for several hours, but it carried with it a note of authority and the expectation of obedience, and Sherlock complied almost without thinking. Instead, he reflected on what he was witnessing. Perhaps this was a part of John's mind that still believed that Sherlock had indeed been shot.

But at the moment, he didn't seem too concerned about it. Instead, he lifted a digital thermometer from the kit and stuck it directly under Sherlock's tongue without bothering to press the button to turn it on.

Sherlock sat in dumbfounded fascination as John proceeded to check his vital signs and basic health with routine efficiency, despite being fast asleep. He took Sherlock's arm and lightly pressed two fingers into his wrist while watching the seconds tick by on a wristwatch he wasn't wearing, monitoring his pulse. When he was satisfied, he removed the thermometer and read the blank screen. There must have been an acceptable (though imaginary) number there, too, because he seemed content with what he saw and gave a little nod. He checked Sherlock for pupil dilation with a regular biro, not a pen light, and used the same biro for eye tracking. But he put the instruments aside to examine Sherlock's throat, two well-practised medical hands probing expertly, gently, beneath his jaw, checking for swelling.

Sherlock sat rigidly throughout but allowed John to perform his vocation. It was the most at ease he had seen him since the latest crime scene, and he was afraid to upset this state of calm. True, it was strange, and not a little unnerving. John had doctored him before, through minor injuries and a few illnesses barely worth remembering, but that had been _then_, and, of course, John had been fully conscious. Now, Sherlock couldn't tell where John believed he was, or when.

Maybe he could find out.

'Doctor,' he said, his voice a study in serenity.

'You're doing fine, soldier. Just rest.' He lowered his hands from Sherlock's throat.

_Soldier?_ Afghanistan, then. Again. 'You said I was shot. Where?'

John pointed to his own left shoulder, gingerly placing his fingers on the spot right over his own old scar. 'You're lucky it missed your heart,' he said. 'Let's have a look.'

Sherlock, though not normally slow on the uptake, took a moment before he realised that John wanted to see the non-existent wound his shoulder. Then he laughed a little uncomfortably. 'You won't be asking me to turn my head and cough any time soon, will you?'

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Your shoulder, captain.'

_Captain? _Who, exactly, did John believe he was treating? Taking a deep breath, Sherlock relented and pulled his t-shirt over his head. While he disrobed, John pulled out his stethoscope and settled the tubing around his neck. Then he removed large, square plasters and disinfectant cream from the kit.

John scooted up on the mattress, the better to reach Sherlock's shoulder and treat the invisible wound. While he rubbed antibiotic into the bare, unbroken skin, he said, 'A clean wound. Straight through. The flesh will heal.'

'Good,' said Sherlock, though apprehensively. John's fingers warmed the cool cream as he rubbed a circle into Sherlock's shoulder. 'Nothing to worry about, then.'

'No. It'll still hurt like hell. That never goes away. It just . . . shifts. In one way or another, you'll always feel like you've been shot through the heart.'

The sudden desire to end this seized Sherlock. He wanted to tell John to stop, to shake him awake and end this unparalysed nightmare. But he couldn't. A window was opened into John's mind, one normally bolted closed with fogged glass in the pane. Sherlock didn't want to pry, but to peer, to understand a little more clearly what John wouldn't or couldn't express while awake.

While he formulated his questions, John taped the square plaster over the imagined wound. His fingers were dexterous, efficient, but also mindful of the supposed pain such a wound could cause, and so they were also kind.

'Where does it shift to, doctor?' Sherlock asked softly. 'What hurts?'

For the first time since entering the bedroom, John's body completely stilled; his hands froze against Sherlock's shoulder; his eyes unfocused and his lids drooped. Sherlock watched him with mounting disquiet until, at last, John sat back, unwound the stethoscope from around his neck, and settled the ear tips in his ears. He placed the cold diaphragm over Sherlock's right breast—against the sternal border and second intercostal space—the perfect place for listening to one's heartbeat. Sherlock held his breath.

'There it goes,' said John, his voice low and dark. 'Still, it goes. Thump. Thump.' Then his eyes rose and met Sherlock's straight on for the first time that night. Their focus was sharp, cutting, hateful; they weren't John's eyes at all. 'What for, Johnny boy?' he asked. 'How's it doing that? I thought we had torn it out of you.'

Sherlock felt his blood run cold. Instinctively, he recoiled, shifted away, meaning to leave the bed on the other side and find his feet. But before he could move very far at all, John's right hand, still bandaged from the damage of the shattered mirror, shot out, seized him around the throat, and slammed his head back against the headboard. 'Stupid little fuck,' he snarled. His fingers squeezed, nails sinking into the skin as he compressed Sherlock's windpipe with vicious intent. Sherlock's legs kicked out—a response to pain, to lack of air—and overturned the kit, which spilt its contents onto bed and floor. He grabbed John's arm to try and break his hold. But at the defensive touch, John cocked his left fist and smashed it into the side of Sherlock's head.

His throat released, Sherlock fell sideways to the mattress, gasping for breath, his head ringing with the exploding sting of the blow. He rolled to his knees, preparing to rise and defend himself, if it came to it, but when he lifted his head, he saw the door hanging open again, and John was gone.

'Shit,' he gasped. He scrambled out of the bed and clawed his way back into his t-shirt even as he ran through the door.

He skidded to a stop the instant he entered the dark sitting room—John was on the floor, on his knees and elbows, rocking backward and forward with a jolting rhythm. Sherlock hit the light by the door, but the rhythm didn't stop, and with the room illuminated, he saw that John was pressing his wrists together, and his fingers were tensed like claws. His head was bowed low and hidden between his arms, but he could hear a choking, stifled cry in his throat.

He should have known better than to approach John from behind. It had been a lesson learnt early, not long after John returned to Baker Street. But Sherlock didn't think. Acting out of desperation, not reason, not even experience, he reached out for him, saying, 'God, John, wake up,' and laid a hand on the curve of his back. John screamed, twisted, and flung himself around so that he lay flat on the hardwood floor.

Sherlock sprang backward as if he had touched a hot coil and watched helplessly as John's arms drew in close, his joined wrists covering his face, which he turned aside as though to bury in the floorboards. 'Jesus no, Jesus no,' he panted, voice muffled, limbs quaking.

'Damn it, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John,' said Sherlock. His voice quavered in fear for his friend. He swallowed it down and tried again. 'John, listen to me. It's Sherlock. Can you hear me, John?'

Several agonising seconds passed, during which John did nothing but tremble. Sherlock said his name again. Through the panting, Sherlock heard John reply, almost too quietly to be heard: 'Sherlock?'

'Yes. Yes, I'm—I'm here. And . . . and Mrs Hudson, too. We're both here. In our flat.'

Slowly, as if he were moving through water, John rolled to his side and curled into himself. 'The flat,' he echoed.

'Yes, John. You're home. You're safe.'

To his great relief, John's wrists drew apart on their own. He lay still, muscles softening and limbs limp. He was still asleep, and Sherlock feared that if he stayed as he was, the nightmare would reconfigure in his mind. So he needed to re-craft the dream in full, and move him off the floor—cold and hard like the freezer—and to the soft, familiar cushions of the sofa.

'It's safe here,' he repeated. He took a step closer and watched John's face for signs of stress. His brow was furrowed, his lips pulled down in a frown. Sherlock continued his narration. 'Safe. Warm. We started a fire in the hearth half an hour ago, and by now, the flames have eaten halfway through the log. So I add another. You . . . you are sitting in your chair, reading the paper. The _Sunday Times_, sports edition. Some twaddle about cricket.'

As he spoke, John's breathing deepened and the lines in his forehead smoothed out. Sherlock lowered himself to the floor, to one knee, and hesitated with a hand hovering over John's bony shoulder. 'Mrs Hudson's making us tea in the kitchen,' he continued. He gently, cautiously, placed the hand on John's arm at the elbow. There was a flinch, but next moment, John relaxed under the touch. 'You ask for biscuits, and she says not worry—she's brought those currant scones you like from the corner bakery. I promise not to eat the extra she always brings this time.'

'You better not,' John mumbled, quite seriously, though still fast asleep.

Sherlock couldn't help it: he laughed, a low rumble in his chest. 'I won't,' he said. Then he lifted John's arm, placed it around his own shoulders, and eased John up into a sitting position. Subconsciously, John gripped his arm at the bicep to support himself, and when Sherlock put an arm around his waist and lifted him to his feet, John followed without resistance.

'I'm playing my violin,' said Sherlock, guiding him to the sofa. 'Mrs Hudson is humming along. A little off pitch and behind the tempo, as usual. The fire is popping—it's the rapid oxidation, really, the resin trapped in the wood expanding as it heats, creating little pockets of gas ready to explode. It's what we get for burning pine—'

'You talk too much,' John mumbled.

Sherlock grinned as he lowered John onto the cushions. 'You're growing sleepy in your chair. So you decide to lie down, here on the sofa, and fall asleep.'

'What about the scones?' John asked, childlike, as he settled onto his side, sinking into the cushions. Sherlock cupped the side of his head and guided him back down to the pillow. Then he knelt and pulled a blanket over his shoulders.

'There will be a whole plate of them in the kitchen when you wake up.'

After that, John didn't ask any more questions. He sank into a deeper, more restful sleep. But Sherlock stayed where he knelt for a long time. He rested his hand on John's blanketed shoulder as though to hold him there, to keep him from drifting away from him, and he sat back on his heels, and bowed his head in relief, in enervation, in regret. As he listened to the sound of John's steadying breaths, he resolved to go out in the morning and buy half a dozen scones before John woke up, to invite Mrs Hudson to breakfast, and to lie his fool head off when John asked about the bruise already blooming beneath his bloodshot eye.

* * *

Sherlock and John weren't the only ones suffering bad dreams.

'How's work going?'

Lestrade cracked his neck and forced himself to settle back into the sofa. Today, he had decided before walking through the door, he would be amenable. Within reason. He would do whatever he had to in order to expedite Dr Quinton's signature of approval on a clean bill of mental health.

'Good. Things are good,' he said, telling himself to smile, to add a little uplift to his voice. The result was a pitch too high and a crooked mouth.

'Stressful?'

'Well, that's the nature of the job, isn't it.'

Dr Quinton readjusted the spectacles on his nose. 'I've been following the news. The murder of a second homeless man. Ghastly stuff.'

'Mm.'

'How's the investigation going?'

Lestrade's head quirked to the side. 'You know I can't talk about that.'

'No, of course not. I know that. So let me put it another way: How are you coping?'

'I'm a homicide detective. This isn't my first case, doctor. I've been doing this sort of thing my whole career. I'm coping just fine.'

'Yes, but with a double murder of the nature of—'

'Serial murder,' Lestrade corrected. 'The victims were not killed together, as during a double or triple murder, a spree. There was a cooling-off period between the two temporally _separated _events. We call that serial murder.'

'And how many serial murderers have you dealt with during your career, detective inspector?'

'Enough.'

'How many have you caught?'

Lestrade straightened a little. 'All but one.'

'Good record.'

'Not good enough.'

'Ah. There it is again.'

With a swift glance at the clock, Lestrade asked, 'There's what again?'

'The self-derision. A couple of weeks ago, you called yourself a _bungling copper_. Do you remember?' Lestrade offered only a shallow nod of acknowledgement, not liking at all where this was going. Dr Quinton continued, 'Do you feel the same today?'

'Let's get one thing clear: I never called myself that. Not really.'

'But is it how you feel?'

Rather than answer that directly, he said, 'I'm a damn good copper.'

'Your record would support that.'

'It's true.'

'All right. And I'm sure you excel in each of the very many aspects of your work. Not only working crime scenes and examining dead bodies, but dealing with the live people, too. Criminals. Victims and their families. Superiors, subordinates, and colleagues. Tell me about your relationship with Mr Holmes.'

Lestrade's pleasant demeanour was slipping: he scowled and looked irritably out the window.

'What do you say, Greg? We can continue to have these silent sessions, me asking the same questions over and over again, you finding new ways to evade answering. Or we can get at the heart of things, maybe even work through the anxieties that are affecting your work, your sleep, your relationships, so you can start to feel in control of your life again. After all, isn't that why you're here?'

'Why I'm here?' Yes, the amenable mood had been snuffed out like candle. 'I'm here because you won't sign off on the damn form.'

'Why does that upset you?'

'Why? Because I shouldn't be here in the first place! _I'm _not the one who—' He caught himself, bit down on his tongue, pinched the bridge of his nose, and squeezed his eyes closed.

Dr Quinton didn't let it go. He inclined his body forward, an arm across his knee. 'Who what?' Lestrade shook his head, furious. 'Greg? Who what?'

It erupted out of him like volcano. 'I'm not the one who was raped and mutilated for ten days in some godforsaken underground abattoir! I'm not the one who spent more than three years as a dead man. I'm not the one being _shot_ at in my own home because an entire city hates me. And I'm not the one who watched the woman I love murdered before my eyes. I have no _business_ being here, feeling so unbalanced, feeling devastated, feeling like my world is spinning out of my control or might explode at any second. No right.'

Dr Quinton eased himself back into his chair. 'I see.'

'_Do_ you? Because it doesn't make a shit bit of sense to me.'

'You're comparing your trauma to others' and have decided that its severity, well, doesn't compare.'

'It _doesn't_. It can't even be called trauma.'

'Okay. We won't call it that. For now. We'll just ignore the fact that you were shot . . .'

'That was hardly a—'

'. . . and that you saw your boss get taken out by sniper fire mere moments after you were forced to arrest him . . .'

'It's the job—'

'. . . while you were still holding onto his arm, no less . . .'

'I've dealt with that—'

'. . . and that you'd been betrayed by those you trusted, those you relied on to do your job right . . .'

'We were never _close_—'

'. . . and that someone you cared about, who you believed to be _three-years dead_, was suddenly alive . . .'

'A shock, not _trauma_—'

'. . . _and_ that you received first-hand evidence of the brutal treatment, the unimaginable torture, of a friend . . .'

Lestrade had stopped talking; his throat was closing in on itself.

'. . . all within the space of about a week. Okay. We won't call it trauma. So do we call it?'

Lestrade tried to clear his throat and squeaked instead. He swallowed it down, wrinkled his buzzing nose, licked his lips, wiped fingers across his dampening forehead. When he thought he could manage speaking again, he cleared his throat, this time successfully, but still could only manage a whisper. 'Week from hell,' he said.

'Sounds ruddy awful.'

'Mm.'

'I want to remind you, Greg, that any _one_ of those kinds of ordeals brings officers into my office all the time. When these things happen, it doesn't matter how strong we are—mentally, emotionally. We are human. Events like the ones you've experienced take their toll. They rattle us down to our bones. And we wish to God there was something we could have done to prevent it. But we can't change what has happened. So we punish ourselves, often without even meaning to. Some people stop eating. Others stop sleeping. Others begin to hate themselves or hurt themselves or cut themselves off from loved ones. And none of this is good. You know that. Up here'—he tapped his head—'you know that. But we can't always stop ourselves, not on our own. So we need outside help. I'm here to help you, Greg.'

Lestrade rubbed a hand under his nose and sniffed loudly. 'I know.'

'Good. But we have to work together. You have to start being honest with me, and you can't do that until you're honest with yourself. About everything. Your insecurities, your fears, your anger, even. Are you willing to do that?'

This wasn't going the way he had imagined. It took every ounce of willpower he still possessed, but in the end, he nodded his head.

'All right then. I want you to answer my next few questions honestly. Yes or no will do for now, all right?'

Again, he nodded, feeling defeated.

'Are you still having the dream?'

Sighing out a ragged breath, he answered with a thick throat. 'Yes.'

'Every night?'

'Most nights.'

'Why do you think you keep having the same dream?'

'Yes or no questions, doc.'

Dr Quinton nodded his concession. 'Do you blame yourself for what happened to Mary Morstan?'

Lestrade glared at Dr Quinton, but though his eyes burned, there was no fire there. Dr Quinton waited patiently for an answer.

'Yes.'

'Do you believe you are right in blaming yourself?'

Lestrade bowed his head and took long, stabilising breaths.

'Honesty, Greg, remember.'

His head came up. 'Yes. Yes, I am. Because . . .'

'Go on.'

'Because I should have _known_. Because I should have anticipated the danger to Mary. That was my job!' He ran a hand across his scratchy chin, feeling the guilt well up inside him like bile, and he was unable to stop it. 'I spent three days looking for John, _three days_, hacking computer files and talking to all the wrong people and working on a case that just _didn't matter_. And then _Sherlock Holmes_ comes along, listens to me bumble on about dead ends and fruitless leads, and a mere _twenty minutes_ later—' He slapped a hand down on the leather armrest so hard that Dr Quinton jumped a little in his seat. 'He knows. Just like that. Mary's a target. And we're fifteen minutes too late getting to her. My phone call is _five minutes_ too late. Five _fucking_ minutes.'

His heart was drumming in his chest, and he couldn't stand the sound of it, so he kept talking to drown it out. 'I didn't see her die, doc. That wasn't me—that was John. But I'm the one who could have saved her. And I didn't. I sat in her flat, and I talked with her, and I _promised_ her, right before I walked out that door and left her all alone, that everything would be all right. She believed me; I could see it in her eyes. But I proved myself a liar in the end. So now I have to watch her throat get slit every night, to remind me of how I failed her _and _John. Every damn night.'

'Do you think John blames you?'

'No one knows _what_ John Watson thinks these days.' He sighed at the instant recognition of something else that had been bothering him, deep down. 'John and I don't talk. Hell, I don't think even John and Sherlock talk. John's got his own demons to deal with.'

'Have you tried talking?'

'I wouldn't know what to say.'

'Do you _want_ to talk to him?'

'Most days, I find it hard just to look at him. He always looks so damned sad all the time, and all I can think about is how I wronged him. But what else am I supposed to do? Pretend like nothing's wrong? Like nothing happened? Like we're still living in the days before Sherlock fell?'

'What do you think John deserves?'

'Better than what I'm giving him. But I don't know what to do.'

'Do you want his forgiveness?'

'I don't deserve—'

'But do you want it?'

Lestrade answered honestly. 'I don't want what I don't deserve.'

'All right. That's all right. For now. I think our way forward is clear. We need to deal with these feelings of guilt and self-blame. Until you are able to forgive yourself, the dreams won't stop.'

'But—'

'Guilt is a funny sort of animal, Greg. We think we can cage it, hide it away. But it's a hungry beast, and soon it starts eating at us from the inside out because we keep _feeding _it with our negative emotions, our worst memories, and self-doubt. But it can't be contained forever. Eventually, if we don't starve it, it will break free to harm us and our relationships with others.'

_Molly_, thought Lestrade. Already, it was affecting her, _them_, as he tried to keep her at arms' length but was unable to let her go. He wanted her too much.

'Tell me what you want.'

'I . . .' Lestrade floundered for a moment before answering. 'I don't want to feel like this anymore.'

'Then are you willing to work on this with me?' Dr Quinton asked.

He nodded, reluctance and willingness tangled in one.

'Good. Let's establish some guiding principles, then, shall we? First: communication. In physical therapy, you exercise the body. In psychotherapy, we talk. Sometimes, that's exactly how we discover what is weighing us down. So that leads to the second principle: honesty, as we discussed before. And third: trust. You need to trust that I can help you, and I need to be able to trust that you're being honest with me. Even when it gets hard and I ask you to tell me about something you really don't want to talk about, we keep moving forward. Yes?'

'Fine.'

'Good. Then let's begin with something easy, something I think you've been lying to yourself about for some time.' Lestrade tensed. 'Let's talk about your feelings of resentment toward Sherlock Holmes.'

* * *

Lestrade walked out of Dr Quinton's office feeling exhausted, as though he could lie down, right there in the hallway, and be asleep before his eyelids had a chance to close.

But there was work to be done. There was always work to be done. And though he was pressing his team hard, stretching them to their limits with long hours and vague threats and unforgiving, unsympathetic responses to their failures, there was still more work to be done. Dryers and Milton headed the search and recovery team for the stolen evidence from the convent but were encountering only dead end after dead end, which led to Lestrade shouting at them as he demanded to know whether they had thought about investigating with their eyes open for a change. Reynolds and Cooper were charged with heading the Jefferies murder, and to work alongside Formisano and Yang, who headed the O'Harris murder and the hunt for Darren Hirsch. All they had accomplished so far, however, was tracking the origin of the hemlock, an herb that had been growing out of season and that was also uncommon to local florist shops. The flower did grow, however, in a greenhouse at Hanover College, not far from where O'Harris had last been seen. A lock had been busted, though no fingerprints had been found.

Then there was Donovan, whom he'd assigned to finding the sod who had fired the Enfield revolver through the window of 221B Baker Street. She attacked her assignment with vigour—perhaps to compensate for avoiding more than one jilted conversation with 221B's occupants—but her search was so far proving as fruitless as Dryers and Milton's.

The trail to finding Sebastian Moran had gone dry. The one leading to Irene Adler, non-existent. And Darren Hirsch was moving around London like a ghost: materialising, attacking, and vanishing without a trace. Well, not _quite_ without a trace. At least they knew now that is _was_ Darren Hirsch—the DNA results had come back positive at last.

And the one person on whom he had been relying above anyone else to help him solve it, all of it, whom he'd finally been sanctioned to consult with, had his attention divided in favour of something Lestrade couldn't possibly beg him to dismiss, no matter how dire things got.

But then, how dire _would _they get? Two murders was bad, but there wasn't any solid indication that there would be more. And all Lestrade needed was for Hirsch to make one mistake, or for one witness to give him just the right sliver of information that would lead to just the right circumstances for taking the bastard down. If they were lucky, he wouldn't need Sherlock at all.

He started off down the hallway toward the lifts where he punched the down button. While he waited, he considered taking an hour to drop in on Sherlock and John (to prove to Dr Quinton, if not to himself, that he felt no _resentment_), not for a consultation or to talk shop at all but just . . . to talk. As friends. But even as he thought it, he dismissed it as ludicrous. Sherlock wasn't the sort to just _talk_, like mates going out for a pint. If not crime, what the hell would they talk _about?_

The lift doors opened with a ding. Lestrade stepped in, hit the floor for his office, and at the very moment the doors closed behind him, his text alert sounded in the pocket of his suit coat. He sighed and fished for it, thinking of all the people he'd rather not talk to at the moment: Gregson, with another request for an update; Anderson, again begging to be reinstated on his investigation team; Mycroft, with another damned covert assignment; Sherlock, telling him there'd been another projectile attack on his windows . . . His heart rose a little, though, at the possibility of Molly, insisting on taking him to dinner and refusing to take any work-related excuses for an answer. He thought how he just might let her win, shuck off the myriad responsibilities that weighed him down, and take a few hours to be with her, just the two of them, not bothering about anything else at all . . .

He checked the lit-up screen: _Watson_.

And his breath stuck in his throat.

Because he knew it wasn't John. Because John never called him. And because John was programmed into his address book as _John W_ now. This was an old number, from an old phone, a phone that was now, as far as he knew, in the hands of fugitive sadist. He had received messages from this number before, and they had each of them been . . . horrific.

He couldn't breathe. He could barely think. Something inside screamed at him not to open the message, to delete it, to pretend he had never received it to begin with. But already, his thumb was hovering over the screen to retrieve it. He knew he could do nothing else. Bracing, he opened the text.

'Oh god,' he said aloud, as the lift doors opened with a cheery ding.


	11. My Fair Lady

**CHAPTER 11: MY FAIR LADY**

**_Please take heed of the archive warnings. This chapter depicts graphic violence. Discretion is advised._**

**FRIDAY, JANUARY 16, 2015**

She found Anderson in the Yard's refectory where he was halfway through a microwaved Salisbury steak and instant mashed potatoes.

'Snowing again, if you can believe it,' she said, dropping into the vacant chair across from him. He gave a start, which she ignored. Instead, she plucked the fork from his hand, scooped up some mashed potato, and ate it. 'Ugh,' she said, pulling a face and passing the fork back to him. 'Disgusting. I don't know how you can stand this cafeteria food.'

His face screwed up like she'd spit it in it. 'It's cheap,' he said. 'And if I'm on the verge of losing my job, I'd best start saving every penny. Kind of you to care, Sally.'

'Don't be so dramatic.' She kicked his leg teasingly under the table. 'You're not sacked yet.' She smiled tightly, if not affectedly, cocking her head to the side and examining him with dark, incisive eyes. 'Looking a little tense for someone with the luxury of running labs indoors all the livelong day while the rest of us brave the cold and wet.'

Refreshing his scowl, he retorted, 'You'd be sore, too, if you had to be hunched over a microscope for hours on end. And that's _before _the paperwork.'

'You should get up and move around more. Walk. Stretch. Do star jumps.'

'Thanks for the advice,' he said with a snort. 'I want back in the field.'

'Yeah, well,' she shrugged and took a sip from his water, 'I'm not here to talk about that. _That_ is a matter entirely out of my hands.'

'Don't be stupid, you have Lestrade's ear. He likes _you_.' She laughed, but he pressed on. 'Tell him it was an honest mistake! Tell him I didn't mean anything by it. It was really late. Or bloody early. Look, I was _tired_, a little out of sorts—'

'How's the family, Anderson?' she cut in. She commandeered the fork again and began pushing peas into the potatoes.

'What? My family?'

'Yeah. Sweet Mum, good old Dad, everyone doing all right?'

'You want to talk about my_ family?_'

'Just being friendly. You went for a visit last weekend. How'd that go?'

She saw the confusion, the suspicion, in his eyes, the failure to size her up with any degree of success. 'Fine, they're all fine. Mum's due for another optometry appointment, what with her eyesight not being what it used to . . . Hang on. How did you know I went to Reading?'

'I could hear you chewing Jelly Babies from the other side of the office, that's how. Your mum always sends you back to London with a sack full of them.'

'Well, aren't you a right little Sherlock Holmes,' Anderson seethed. Donovan's smile slipped off entirely. No more games. Setting aside the fork, she placed her elbows on the table and tended forward.

'Your dad,' she said, 'Falklands veteran, isn't he?'

'Yeah. So?'

'And your granddad? World War Two vet, yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'Ah. And great-granddad? World War One?'

'Look, I come from a long line of military careers. So what? So I'm a ruddy coward for not enlisting, is that it?'

She wasn't deterred. 'And great-great granddad? What are we talking, the Afghan War?'

'Jesus, I don't know. Why are you asking me this?'

'Got any memorabilia? Any _heirlooms_ from the old pops?'

He frowned. She watched him lick his lips, watched his eyebrows lower in consternation. He began to twiddle his fork unnecessarily. 'Some things, I guess. I mean, _I_ don't have anything, but—'

'But Papa Anderson has, hasn't he? Things like old medals? Photographs?'

'Sure . . .'

'An Enfield revolver?'

'Now hang on.' He looked around the refectory to see if anyone happened to be listening in. 'Just what exactly are you asking me?'

'I'm asking where you were last Friday.'

'You know that. I was in Reading.'

'Maybe during the day. But you wouldn't stay the night. I mean, _really_, love, not with your flat only a thirty-minute train ride away. When was the last time you actually slept in your parents' house? I know you better than that, Anderson. So what I'm asking is this: Where were you Friday _night?_ Say, around nine o'clock? Back in London, were you?'

He squirmed. 'I know where you're going with this. I know exactly where.'

'Just covering all my bases. Can't rule out _anyone_, especially not someone with a score to settle. That would be irresponsible. So just a refresher course. Here's how detective work _works_, in case you'd forgotten, being off the team and all. It's a game of joining the dots: suspect, opportunity, _motive_.'

'Stop. _Stop it_. I had nothing to do with what happened on Baker Street.'

'Then I'll ask again: Where were you?'

'At _home_. In my flat, watching telly.'

'What did you watch?'

'BBC Four. It was, um, a documentary. About military aircraft.'

'Learn anything interesting?'

'I didn't realise there'd be a quiz.'

'You in all night?'

'_Yes._'

'Can anyone corroborate that?'

'No, I was alone, because, as you seem to have forgotten, I'm a friendless _tosser_.'

If he had been hoping for some pity, Sally Donovan wasn't doling it out. 'So no one came to the door. No one rung you up. Not a soul to vouch for you. And you just had a night in.'

'I'd been suspended for three days, I didn't exactly feel like going out and celebrating.'

'There are other reasons to leave the flat. Look.' She interlaced her fingers under her chin and stared him down. 'This is how I can see it going down. You're furious. Maybe a little pissed. Of course you are. He embarrassed you in front of the whole team. Hard to blame him. I mean, really, Anderson, _hemlock poisoning?_ But when you lashed out, fought back, gave him the what-for, you got punished. What next? You go crying to mummy, and while you're home having a good whinge, you notice granddaddy's antique revolver behind glass on the mantelpiece . . .'

'Sally—'

'Next thing you know, you're back in London, but the injustice still has you rankled, and one niggling little thought just won't go away. A drink or two later, and it's beginning to sound like a very sensible thought indeed. Am I warm, or am I _hot?_'

'I can't believe you! _I_ am not a suspect! You honestly think I'd do something like that? Me? What kind of person do you take me for?'

If Donovan had been a hound, he would have seen her ears flatten against the side of her head and her hackles rise. Her palms fell to the table top. 'What kind of person do I take you for? Let me think. How about the kind of person who taunts rape victims just to stick it to a personal foe?'

His jaw fell open. 'That's _not_ why I did it.'

'Oh, okay. So you're the kind of person who taunts rape victims for the hell of it. You know, you're _lucky_ all Lestrade did was suspend you for three days. If it had been up to me, I would have sacked your sorry arse on the spot.'

'Watson shouldn't have been there in the first place!'

'_That's _your defence?' she cried. They really were drawing attention now, but her volume had spiked beyond her willingness to control it. 'He shouldn't have been there, so he had it coming? You're sick. _Sick_. I should drag you down to interrogation right now.'

He paled. 'Sally,' he said beseechingly, speaking barely loud enough to be heard; she watched him try to melt into the table, despairing of the plethora of eyes pointed in their direction. 'Sally, this whole thing . . . It's absurd. You know me. You _know_ me. I would never— I _could _never— I'm not capable!'

She snorted. That could very well be true. Anderson was too much of a coward to do even something as pusillanimous as a shoot and run. The truth was, she was bluffing. Beyond her own suspicions—coloured by her disgust over what had happened at the crime scene—she had no true evidence linking him to the shooting on Baker Street. Just speculation. Forensics had been able to lift only a partial print off of one bullet, not enough to match any records. There had been no eyewitnesses—none that had come forward, anyway—and of course the revolver itself hadn't been recovered, despite the ongoing search in the most likely of places for panicking assailants to dispose of weapons: skips and sewers and postboxes. The Thames. So when it came down to the bare bones of it all, Donovan didn't really believe Anderson had the stones for attempted murder, no matter how thoroughly his fragile ego was whipped. His revenge was more petulant, childish, cowardly. Like being a nasty, hateful git under his breath.

But her own doubts weren't stopping her from sending officers to Reading to question his mother, which is exactly what they were doing at this very moment. She had timed their knock on the front door with her entrance into the cafeteria. She'd work on getting the search warrant for his flat, next.

All that aside, there was something _off _about him. It was in the way he blinked, like there was an eyelash caught under the lid, in the way he couldn't focus on any one object for more than two seconds together. It was how his shoulders rounded forward and his chest caved inward. It was in the way he swallowed and licked his lips and kept shifting the tray, as though to re-establish the barrier between them, afraid she might leap over the table and throttle him and the tray would be his only defence. And it wasn't just today. His behaviour had been askew for days, maybe weeks. She just couldn't quite place her finger on why.

'What are you not telling me?' she hissed at him.

He spluttered. 'What? I don't, I mean, I, I, what are you—?'

'Something's not right. I can smell it. And it stinks.'

He glowered, and his closed mouth twisted about like he was forming words but not uttering them. At last, his body stilled and a shadow passed over his face. He said, 'Then maybe a hot shower would do you some good, _Donovan_.'

'Ex_cuse_ me?'

'The stench of Sherlock Holmes. It's all over you.'

She smirked. 'Oh no. I know that ploy. You're not turning this back on me.' She raised her chin in defiance. 'My conscience is clear.'

'As clear as it was when you arrested him three-and-a-half years ago? You knew _then_ he was a psychopath, and guilty as a modern-day Judas. You were convinced of it.'

'I was following the evidence. That was my _job_. Just because I didn't like where it led didn't stop me from—'

'Oh, you liked it all right. What was it you said to me, when we'd heard he'd jumped? You looked at me and you said, _It's over. Thank God._ I knew what you meant, _exactly_ what you meant. _He_ was over, done, dead, and the world was free of one more criminal.'

'We all believed it. That he had lied, I mean. We couldn't see the whole picture.'

'No, _no_, Sally! No! You can't see it _now!_ He's painted you a _new_ picture over the real one, to justify what he did and to fool you, all of you. You're blinder now than you've ever been. That man's got Lestrade eating out of his hand and you on a leash, and the people out _there_'—he stabbed a finger at the windows—'they _know_ it, they can feel how dangerous he is, more dangerous than ever, and they're scared shitless and wondering what's the matter with the Metropolitan Police who still invite him to crime scenes and let him handle and manipulate and probably _plant or destroy_ real evidence!'

'I'm not having this conversation again. You know how I feel about Holmes being at crime scenes. You know how I feel about him personally. But how many times do I have to say this? He's not a criminal!'

'Not a convicted one,' said Anderson peevishly, if not with a dash of self-righteous coolness. 'Not anymore. The man should have gone to trial, if not straight to a jail cell. We all know it. But he wormed his way out of it with some cock-and-bull story about two Richard Brooks. Yeah, well, show me two bodies, give me some hard _proof_ I can run labs on. But he can't, can he? No one can. Sherlock Holmes is nothing more than a clever storyteller. But the truth will out, Sally. Watch him, you'll see. You'll see how I'm right about him. You'll see just how dangerous a man he really is.'

Before she could retort, her mobile sounded. It was a text from Lestrade:

_My office, now.  
GL_

At once, she placed both hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet, leaning closer over the table, and watched him shrink back. 'I'm watching _you_, Anderson. You take any missteps, I'll know. Got it?'

* * *

It was Friday. Sherlock Holmes was waiting anxiously for something to happen. Then, at half five in the afternoon, something did.

His phone rang.

The caller ID showed Lestrade's name against a lit screen. He eyed John across the room where he was watching the BBC News at Five. Though John didn't stir at the sound of the phone, Sherlock saw him reach for the remote to turn down the volume by increments, inclining his head slightly toward Sherlock, the better to hear.

He put the phone to his ear and sighed dramatically. 'What is it this time, Mycroft?'

'Sherlock. It's _me_,' came Lestrade's voice. Sherlock could practically see the look of bewilderment in what he was sure were currently pinched eyebrows.

'Let me guess—just a kindly, fraternal _chat_, is it? Make it quick.'

'. . . Oh. Is John with you?'

'Of course. I might inquire into your diet again, but we both know how well _that's_ going.'

John's head turned back, giving his fuller attention to the telly.

'Right. Okay, don't say anything. Just listen. There's something I need to show you. It's probably best—no, I _know_ it's best that John doesn't see. It's . . . it's not good. Can you come down to the Yard? I'm giving a full briefing in twenty minutes.'

'Your timing is impeccable. As is your indolence. Is your army of minions on holiday? Can't be bothered to do a bit of legwork yourself?'

'This had better be for show, _dear brother_,' said Lestrade testily. 'Will John be all right if you leave for a short while? What's he at today?'

'Two. That's how I like to keep it, and I'll trust you not to meddle with that.'

'A unit is on its way to keep an eye on things. Officers will be watching the front door from a discreet location. And I'll try to get you back as quickly as I can. How long can you—?'

'_One hour_. Then I'm done. I can't be expected to miss _The One Show_ at seven. They're featuring Keely Hawes.'

'Then move your arse, Holmes, and get down here. I wouldn't want to keep you from your celebrity gossip.'

'You're a pain in the arse, Mycroft. You owe me.'

He ended the call and stood up from the couch with a huff. He opened his mouth, but John pre-empted him. 'Mycroft, was it?'

'I'm going down to the Diogenes Club,' said Sherlock. He knew John had no fondness for the place, so what he said next would present no temptation. 'He wants me to review some transcriptions of a telephone conversation from Belarus that he thinks might be coded. Of course, if he would bother to string two beads together he could figure this out on his own, but that's Mycroft for you. Do you want to come?'

'No,' said John to the television.

'Shan't be long,' he said as he pulled on his coat and fitted his gloves and scarf. 'And it's Mrs Hudson's bridge night, so she'll be out. I'll bring something home, then, shall I? Thai?'

'Yes, all right.'

He felt his coat pocket for phone, keys, and wallet, took one last look at John to assure himself that he was indeed of sound mind today, and set his brain's alarm clock, beginning the countdown. One hour. He would keep to it.

* * *

The last time John had set foot inside the Diogenes Club had been on the night before Sherlock died, at which point Mycroft had near enough admitted that he'd been the one to tempt Moriarty with his brother's scent before setting him on the trail. In the days that followed, Mycroft had failed to claim the body, attend the funeral, or even watch the casket lower into a hole in the earth. John. It was _John_ who had done all those things. Days later, Mycroft would accuse him of failing to protect Sherlock, a thing for which John already accused himself.

John Watson had no love for the man. He saw Mycroft's sins more clearly than anyone, he believed, more clearly than even Sherlock. Here was a man with untold resources and manpower at his fingertips, and he had sat by while Moriarty was acquitted of crimes the whole world knew him to be guilty of. Then he had watched him walk free. He had known, before anyone, that Sherlock had been in danger, yet he had done nothing. So though John knew what Mycroft had done in helping Lestrade find him in his own torture chamber, that night, and though he knew that Mycroft had been trying to make amends ever since, in his own, minimal, man-behind-the-curtain kind of way, John would never be able to forgive what Mycroft had done to his own brother.

He made concerted efforts to avoid any direct contact with Mycroft Holmes. If he knew Mycroft was on his way to the flat, he kept to his room; and if he turned up unannounced, he found a reason to excuse himself from the sitting room. Not that he happened by very often at all, and John faulted him for that, too. So it was only after much chewing of the lips and clenching of the fists that he finally picked up his phone, found Mycroft's number among the short list of names in his address book, and called.

'Evening, Doctor Watson,' said Mycroft on the other end, failing to disguise his surprise at being contacted. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

John skipped over the niceties. 'Is Sherlock with you?'

There was a slight pause while Mycroft seemed to consider this question. He answered slowly. 'No. Have you misplaced him?'

'Are you at the Diogenes Club?' he asked next.

'I'm not even in London. John, is something the matter?'

'Nothing,' John said. And he ended the call.

His suspicion, then, had been correct. Sherlock, though with all his snideness intact, had agreed all too readily to assist the brother he never readily assisted. Even had he been interested—and when had cracking codes ever been interesting?—he surely would have made Mycroft beg a little longer. Clever of him to play it so cool, inviting him along somewhere he knew John wouldn't care to go. But he had miscalculated. For as well as Sherlock knew John, he had forgotten to account for one little detail: John knew Sherlock.

But if not Mycroft, then who had called? And where had Sherlock hurried off to? What had he not wanted John to know?

John planted his cane to push himself to his feet, but he let it fall against the chair again once he was upright and hobbled unaided to his laptop, which lay open on the table by the boarded windows. He woke the monitor and sat. He located the site for Sherlock's smartphone, typed in Sherlock's email address, and entered the password. John knew this trick. He would use GPS to find him.

In less than half a minute, a map of London appeared, along with a moving, blinking dot. John watched it roll south on Park Lane, then to Grosvenor, and by the time it turned onto Victoria Street, he knew exactly where Sherlock was headed, and he felt the sizzling disquiet burst into flame. It was a case! It was _his_ case! It had to be! Any other case and Sherlock would have said, he would asked him to come along. But now, he was being shunted to the side, kept in the dark, like a child, a helpless little child.

With a loud screech of the chair, he pushed back from the desk and shot to his feet, but he'd taken only two steps when a sudden pain burst from the site of the gunshot wound and, like electricity, reverberated up and down the bone, from ankle to knee to hip. He gasped, gripped the table to keep his balance, and squeezed his eyes shut and jaw tight, waiting for the pain to ebb. When he could open his eyes again, his sight was cloudy, but he used his anger to fuel him. Cane in hand, he staggered around the flat, collecting shoes and gloves and coat and hat, and by the time he was dressed for the winter air, Sherlock—he saw by the dot on the screen—had arrived at New Scotland Yard.

There was one problem. He believed (and had for a while) that someone—Lestrade's people? Mycroft's people?—were watching the flat. If they hadn't been before the shooting, certainly they were now. He had no proof of this beyond the suspicion that something had been set up even after John had expressed (heatedly) his dislike of the thought of being watched. Bollocks the claim of security. What if they were turncoats, like the others? Double agents? What if they were given keys to the flat? What if they were tracking his movements? And all in the name of his protection? Sherlock hadn't liked the thought either, but Mycroft couldn't be trusted to respect his brother's wishes.

So he couldn't use the front door. Not if they were watching, not if they would try to stop him leaving. Fortunately, for him, Mrs Hudson was out, and she had a back door to the alley. He would use that.

He stepped outside and pulled the door closed securely behind him. The chill wind stung his hot face, carrying with it flurries of snow that didn't seem to be landing. Before stepping away from the back door, he checked up and down the alley, then high and low, assessing the threat level. When he was satisfied, he made for the Jubilee Line.

The tube was crowded with the usual commuters returning home and eager for the weekend. Normally, the crowds would make him anxious, but John convinced himself that he was too angry to care. With the seats all occupied, he stood. He grabbed hold of a metal pole and rested his weight against it, just to take some of the pressure off his bad leg while he balanced with the cane. At the next stop, Bond Street, more people got on the train than got off, and again at Green Park. His anger slipped from his hold as the press of bodies began to overwhelm him, and he kept shifting, skirting around the pole to find his own unconfined space, but there was nowhere to go. His coat began to feel too warm, the air too thin, and Bridge Street too far. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eye. He struggled to concentrate on something else, anything else: his anger—which he could no longer find—or the exit—which he could no longer see—or counting, one, two, three, forty-two steps down, eighteen steps straight ahead, and then through a doorway, twenty-seven . . .

People shifted and jostled, and a body pressed itself firmly against his backside.

John let out a strangled, half-swallowed sort of yelp and thrust himself forward and into the crowd, making directly for the doors. He jolted through the mass of bodies and was shoved hither and thither himself, but his eyes were fixed on the closed doors with half a plan to wrench them open whether or not the train was still moving. To the people he shoved past he made no apology, which he wouldn't have been able to voice even if he had the wits enough to think the words, and when he at last reached the exit, he placed a hand on the cold glass and gasped, trying to breathe.

'Sir, are you okay?'

He heard the question, but he didn't register it.

'I think this one's gonna be sick.'

'Oh god, let him out first.'

'Stay back, honey. Don't touch him.'

At last, the doors opened at Westminster, and he hurried out, almost losing his footing but unable stop his feet from moving until he'd passed through the crowd awaiting to board, then down the platform and into another crowd pushing into their next train.

When the press of bodies thinned out, John found himself leaning a shoulder against a wall while the people continue to flow by him like a raging river. He closed his eyes, and with every breath, he thought _one, two, three, four, five, and hold_. Breathe in. Breathe out.

He still had to take the District Line to St James's Park.

When he at last emerged onto the street again, he was so stiff he could barely walk, but the cold air rushed into his lungs, and the oxygen loosened his tense muscles and revived him enough to press onward. It was a two-minute walk more to the Yard, and his shaky legs steadied as he went. He took another bracing breath before he pulled open the Yard doors and entered.

Though he had not been inside this building for many years, not much about it had changed. He still had to pass through a metal detector, present identification, take a visitor's badge, and sign his name in a log book. Glancing up the list of guests, he did not see Sherlock's name, but that wasn't entirely surprising. It was doubtful he had come in through the visitor's entrance to begin with.

John walked up to reception. The young man behind the counter didn't recognise him at a glance, which John thought just as well.

'I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,' he said, infusing his voice with as much of the old military confidence he could muster.

'Are you expected?'

'Damn right I am.'

'Oh. Okay.' The young man typed something into his keyboard. 'It appears that DI Lestrade is currently conducting a briefing.'

'Yes, I know. That's exactly where I'm meant to be.'

The young man took John in, scarred temple to lame leg, and said, 'I believe it's for officers only . . .' But seeing the hard look on John's face, he trailed off.

John pulled out his wallet, opened it, and withdrew a plastic card. 'And for all the members of his team. I'm a consultant.' He threw the card down in front of the receptionist and waited, almost daring the young man to show him to a waiting room or invite him back tomorrow.

'It's, erm, room 422,' he said instead. 'Lifts are just around the—'

'I know where they are,' said John, reclaiming his card.

Alone in a lift, he tore the visitor's badge off the front of his coat and stuffed it into a pocket.

* * *

Due to a conflicting meeting and a few hiccups in technology, the briefing was slow to get underway. While the officers were still assembling in the room—everyone from junior detectives to forensics specialists to situation analysts—Sherlock sat in the front row, impatiently drumming fingers on his crossed knee. Lestrade stood at the front of the room, hands akimbo, speaking crossly with the IT guy who was trying to figure out why the projector wasn't working, while Sgt Donovan stood to the side, arms folded and looking just about as irked as Sherlock felt. Sherlock caught Lestrade's eye, tapped his watch, and gave him his most dour of expressions, meaning, _Get this started, or I'm taking over_.

Apparently, his very presence carried with it a kind of force field, for though there was limited seating and two rows of bodies were standing in the back of the small room, no one occupied the seats directly behind or on either side of him. He heard whispered jokes about 'the assistant going rogue' and that he was sure to be 'disciplined' when he returned home. He pretended not to notice, or to care. But he was Sherlock Holmes—he noticed everything.

'Aha!' Lestrade cried as the projector snapped to life, and a square of blue light illuminated the screen behind him. He gave the IT guy a sharp jerk of the head indicating that he leave the room. 'All right everyone, quiet down! Quiet. Let's get this underway. McLeod, the door. Thank you. Now, just to be clear, this briefing is primarily for officers involved in the manhunt for Sebastian Moran, but I've also requisitioned those of you chiefly working the Slash Man killings, as we believe these crimes are closely related.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, silently urging Lestrade to cut the preamble. Whether Lestrade could sense the telepathic cattle prod to get to the point, Sherlock could only speculate, but with the next words out of his mouth, he did just that and got straight to it.

'This morning,' he said, 'I received, to my mobile, a'—here he seemed to struggle for the word; Sherlock supplied it in his own mind: _threat_—'message,' he settled on, 'from John Watson's old phone, which we believe still to be in Moran's possession. It is still untraceable, and the phone company can't seem to recover its billing records or cut its service. We're still working on that one. This is the . . . sixth communication from Moran that I have received to my personal mobile.'

_Seventh_, thought Sherlock, though he supposed that Lestrade was purposefully omitting the video from his count. He had deleted it, after all, after forwarding it to Arthur Doyle's phone, which had ultimately been destroyed. No evidence of the video now existed, except for the perfect copy in Sherlock's eidetic memory.

'The nature of each of these _communications_ has been on the level of threat and intimidation. Now, the images I'm about to show you, some of you have seen before, though many of you have not, as they have been deemed highly sensitive and classified. Let me repeat: this information is confidential and is not to be shared with anyone not on this task force. The only reason you are all permitted to view them is in the interest of . . . _internal transparency_. And you need to know the sort of creature we're dealing with. Lights please.' Someone killed the lights. 'Thank you. Exhibit 23-A.'

Sherlock saw Lestrade steel himself. Then he clicked a button on the hand-held remote, and the first photo Sherlock had seen, that day in the morgue at Bart's, was projected onto the screen. The image had already seared itself into his memory, but seeing it again—enlarged, the only thing illuminated in a darkened room—twisted something deep inside him. For a moment, it was like it was happening all over again. As he stared at the image of John's beaten face, the bright blood in his mouth, the smears of dark red and black and blue on his cheeks and jaw and neck, he was besought once again with that feeling of helplessness and desperation, and he had to remind himself that John was safe, back at home. Nevertheless, without being aware of it, he began scratching the back of his hand with his fingernails.

'This photo was taken with a mobile phone on Tuesday, October 21, of last year,' Lestrade continued, 'on the seventh day of John Watson's captivity. It was received to my mobile the next day, Wednesday, October 22, at approximately 1830 hours, some seven hours after the body of Mary Morstan was recovered from Baker Street.'

He clicked the remote again.

'It was immediately followed by two more photographs. Exhibit 23-B'—the second photo flashed up on the screen, a close shot of John's bloody wrists, joined by wire; he clicked again—'and Exhibit 23-C.' As he continued to talk, Lestrade left on the screen the image of John lying prostrate on a bloody tiled floor, his back a mess of lacerations in the form of writing. His measured tone was something Sherlock didn't understand. If it had been him, he would have been shouting his wrath at all of them, demanding that they get off their arses and find the son of a bitch who had inflicted this cruelty upon an innocent man.

'Along with Ms Morstan's body, these photos were our first pieces of _hard_ evidence that indicated not only the severity of Watson's predicament, but also that he was still alive and that the brutal treatment was ongoing. This series of photographs was accompanied by a single text message promising the further torture—specifically, the dismemberment—of the victim if we—that is, if _I_—did not turn over Sherlock Holmes, who was, at the time, believed to be dead by all but a few.'

At that, Sherlock heard a few people behind him murmuring something to a neighbour, but Lestrade's voice overrode them.

'Now, that text message referred to John Watson as _Johnny boy_, what our psychoanalysts refer to as a debasing moniker intended to diminish his status as an independent agent and turn him into a sort of _pet_. This nickname was used in conjunction with the possessive pronoun _our_, that is _our Johnny boy_, further implying a sentiment of ownership over Dr Watson that the perps, specifically Moran, had developed. This theory is furthered by the inscriptions Moran made in the victim's skin, as you see here. Though intended as a message for Holmes, Moran was also, in effect, marking what he considered to be his own property, thereby claiming Dr Watson as _his_. Our psychoanalysts, specialising in criminal psychology and profiling, believe that by this stage—and correct me if I'm wrong here, Hinckley—Moran and his men had reduced Dr Watson, in their own minds, to little more than an object, a toy and a tool, but also that they had formed a kind of possessiveness over him to such an extreme that we might call it, what was it?'

'An intense psychological attachment,' said Hinckley. 'Extreme possessiveness disorder.'

'That's right. A psychological, possessive attachment, which we believe was only intensified with the later sexual violation.' He clicked the remote again, and the screen went to blue. Sherlock released the tension in his muscles, which he hadn't realised until then had been seized up, and at that point noticed how the skin on the back of his hand was raw and red from his scratching. He cursed under his breath and flattened his offending hand over the sore to hide it.

'The next message I received from Watson's old phone came a couple of weeks later . . .'

As Lestrade continued to relate the psychology behind the single-worded text _Bang_ and Pitts' demise, Sherlock's phone sounded with a text message. He felt eyes turn in his direction. Instantly, he silenced the alert noise and checked the screen. There was a momentary flutter of uncertainty somewhere in the region of his stomach when he saw it was from Mycroft, and that uncertainty morphed into alarm upon reading the text:

_Next time you intend to use  
me as an alibi, a little  
forewarning would not  
go amiss._

He gasped through his nose. Immediately, he hit reply and let his fingers fly across the keyboard.

_What did you tell him?_

A moment later came the reply:

_I was not aware that discretion  
was necessary. I told him that  
I am not currently in London.  
He hung up on me._

Sherlock quelled the impulse to shoot to his feet and run out of the room, to hail a cab or at the very least to call John with an explanation . . . and to make sure he hadn't done anything rash. But what was the most likely consequence? In all probability, John was still sitting at home, seething, no doubt, and waiting to see whether Sherlock would keep to his word about _one hour_. He checked the time. Forty-two minutes had passed. He would need to leave very soon.

'Moran's only purpose in sending that text,' Lestrade continued, 'was to show me that _he _was in control. He feared no reprisal. He wanted to boast—'

'Get to it, Lestrade,' Sherlock spoke out.

At his intrusion, the murmur swelled again, but Sherlock was beyond caring. Lestrade looked for a moment as though he were biting his tongue, but he nodded curtly.

'Threat and intimidation,' he repeated, 'is his game. And it is exactly what he's doing now. A reminder about the confidential nature of these images. No one is permitted to discuss them with anyone outside of this room.' Lestrade caught Sherlock's eye again, and they shared a look of chagrin, before clicking the remote again and bringing up the newest screen.

It was a video, and the moment it began playing, Sherlock's fingers sank back into his skin, this time at the wrist, and latched on.

It was his third time viewing it since arriving at the Yard twenty-five minutes ago, but it was no easier now, not when these people who didn't _really_ care about John's personal suffering were being made privy to it. Yelling at Lestrade, arguing against the senseless dissemination of sensitive materials, had done nothing to dissuade him, for he was under direct orders from Chief Superintendent Gregson, who insisted on employing transparency with the entire team working the case. There had been too much cloak-and-dagger detective work to this point, Gregson had said, unfazed by Sherlock's rant. It was time to bring things into the light. _Every member of this task force_, Gregson had said in his plain-speaking, authoritative, no-room-for-discussion manner, _has been individually reviewed and judged trustworthy. They are professionals with a job to do; I will not treat them like children._

So there was John, laid out naked on the blood-spattered orange tiles like a spectacle for every viewing Tom, Dick, and Harry with an officer's title before his name. He wore only the metal cilice on his right leg, and his hands, still bound to the drain, were crushed beneath his body where Daz had left him.

_'Day eight, is it?'_

The gritty voice of Sebastian Moran himself. And the camera shook. The image became a mess of streaking colour and flickering lights. When it settled again, Moran was in front of the camera, straddling John's backside with his knees on the tiles and bearing a silver scalpel like a sceptre. He motioned to the camera, inviting it closer.

_'Watch how I work, boys,'_ he said with a smirk.

And the camera watched—as did the full room of Yarders. They watched as Moran found a stretch of unbroken skin on John's back, in the depression along the outer edge of the erector spinae where the tissue was soft and deep. Moran turned to the camera and gave a wink. Then he pressed the tip of the scalpel deep into the flesh. As the blade sank, bright-red blood rushed to the surface, easy as breaking an egg yolk, and as Moran dragged the scalpel down toward the waist in one, long, straight stroke, the blood spilled down John's side in a solid sheet. The instrument retreated, dark and dripping, and Moran wiped the skin free of blood to find a new home for blade.

_'His face,'_ Moran said.

The camera pulled up, repositioning in front of John's face, which filled the screen. One cheek pressed against the basement floor; the other was swollen and darkly bruised. Blood stained his patchy eight-day beard. Broken skin peppered the side of his face as though he'd been in an explosion. He might as well have been: he looked to be in shock. His eyes—pale and bloodshot from exhaustion and shining with tears—stared straight ahead, unfocused and unaware of the camera. His nose was clearly broken and curved to the left side of his face. His lips, cracked, scabbed, were parted so he could breathe. But he seemed hardly aware that a camera was being held in front of his face. Every few seconds, he winced and his head trembled against the tiles; it was the most reaction he gave to being carved. It was the eighth IOU.

After forty-one excruciating seconds of watching John's face as he endured this torture, Moran's own came into the frame as his body curved over John's. His head tilted to the side, and he spoke, softly, into John's ear. His voice was too low for the camera's microphone to pick up, but John's eyebrows twitched, then his eyes closed, and a tear slipped from each eye, one striking the floor, the other puddling on the flat of his broken nose. Moran laughed, dark, hideous laughter, and kissed John at the temple, lips and tongue, a single lick of blood.

The camera pulled down once again, and the last shot was the completed IOU bleeding freely down John's back. The video ended.

Heavy silence hung in the room as the screen went dark and the room lost all illumination, but Sherlock could hear the smothered glottal stops as Lestrade repeatedly trying to clear his throat without making any noise. At last, he managed to say, gruffly, 'Lights,' and someone flipped the switch. Lestrade cleared his throat again.

'We figure that this event took place near midnight on Wednesday, October 22,' he said, but his voice had lost its boom. 'This video was accompanied by a text message. It read, simply'—he was looking down at the remote as though the words were written there for him to read, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room, '_One of a kind: The one that got away_.'

He sighed and put the remote down on a table. His hands went into his pockets. 'Since recovering Dr Watson from St Mary's, we see this as the first _open_ threat that has been made against him, and we are taking it seriously. A unit has been sent to Baker Street to monitor 221 and to keep an eye out for any suspicious characters. After this meeting, I'll be going over there myself, with Holmes, to apprise John—that is, Dr Watson—of this latest development.

'Intelligence, however, does not put Moran in London. He was last spotted in Belarus, a week ago, and MI6 believes he is still on the Continent. And to be frank, we are not confident that Moran sent us this video and text himself. He has many operatives, confirmed to us by Everett Stubbins, who described himself as a member of a _legion_ of people working for Moran, interested in both Holmes _and _Watson.

'The _point_,' he said, and for the first time, his voice shook a little in anger, 'is that _this_'—he stabbed a finger at the blank screen—'cannot be allowed to continue. Enough people have already suffered or died because of this man, and he sends us _this _to make us squirm and to laugh at our ineptitude. But we are _not_ a weak force against him. He lost twelve of his own last October and November. We did that. And we're not done. But he's still laughing at us. We need to show him in no uncertain terms that we are not _playing_ this game, _his_ game. So we _find _him, we stop this, we—'

His voice cut out, because all at once, the room rang with the sound of a dozen mobiles. People jumped, checked their pockets, but as it happened, the sounding phones belonged only to those seated or standing on the right-hand side of the room.

Including Sherlock.

Eyebrows knitted together, Sherlock opened the text from _Unknown Caller_.

_London Bridge is  
falling down_.

Behind him, someone read the text aloud—it matched Sherlock's perfectly.

'That's what mine says, too!' one of the women said in alarm. 'What is this—?'

But like Lestrade's, her words were cut off because her phone suddenly chimed again, and those all around her, but this time, the phones belonging to the people seated in the middle section of the room joined in.

'The hell?' said Lestrade, stepping forward, eyes jumping from mobile to mobile.

'London Bridge is falling down,' a man seated in the centre read aloud.

'Falling down,' read someone else on the right-hand side; again, it matched the newest text in Sherlock's hand. A murmur of disquiet swelled in the room.

'Okay, everyone, remain calm,' said Lestrade.

But it happened again: every mobile in the room sounded its text alert. And this time, it was the section of phones on the left-hand side of the room that read _London Bridge is falling down_. And in the centre and on the right: _falling down, falling down._

Sherlock was on his feet, staring at his phone in wonder and dread as yet _another_ text message appeared on his phone, reading the same as the first. It was starting over. He whirled and watched as the texts kept coming in waves, repeating the rhyme, though never finishing it. He watched the terror growing on the men's and women's faces with each new text, as they looked to each other, to Lestrade, to him, wondering what was happening, what it meant, how to stop it.

'It's a round,' he said. 'A musical round. Perfectly timed.'

He could feel it like a metronome in his head. Tick. Tick. Tick.

'But _why?_' asked Lestrade.

'We need to trace this,' said Donovan.

'You won't be able to,' Sherlock said, waiting for the second refrain of _falling down _to appear on his phone. A second later, it did. 'It's from _them_. It's a message, another message . . .' He waited for the song to begin again, but his phone was silent. He looked up. The phones at the centre of the room had fallen silent, too. And at last, the phones on the left received their last _falling down_.

Silence descended again, and the officers all stared at Sherlock with bated breath, waiting for an explanation. But he had none. It was a rhyme, a children's rhyme, a children's _game_, and it had been left incomplete—

And then, from the back of the room, a single mobile sounded. And Sherlock felt his heart clench: he recognised the distinctive text alert sound, different from all the others.

Startled, the officers standing in the back of the room turned their heads, looking for the source of the sound. When they discovered it, they stepped aside. And there was John. Small and unobtrusive, he been standing hidden in the back the whole time, invisible to even those standing with him, and—

_The whole time. Oh god_, thought Sherlock. He'd seen it all, heard it all, every ghastly image, every menacing word. He'd been unprepared, completely unprepared, for what Lestrade had presented to a room full of strangers, and it showed in his visage and posture. His face was wan, this skin of his forehead shiny with sweat, his eyes wet and lined with red. He looked lost, stunned. As John stared at Sherlock from the opposite side of the room, phone in a trembling hand, he licked his lips as though wanting to speak, but he couldn't. Instead, he blinked and looked down to read the text he'd just received. A long pause followed. Then he gripped the cane and planted it in the cleared path in front of him. He moved forward.

All eyes tracked him as he limped down the aisle that ran the length of the room until he reached Sherlock. Without a word, he shoved his mobile into the centre of Sherlock's chest, turned, and headed for the exit. Sherlock caught the mobile before it could crash to the ground, but his attention was on John's retreating back. When it disappeared beyond the door, Sherlock's eyes dropped quickly to the open text. Then he threw the mobile to Lestrade and followed after John, the glowing letters still burning in his retinas:

_My fair lady_.


	12. Of Old Wounds and New

**CHAPTER 12: OF OLD WOUNDS AND NEW**

**FRIDAY, JANUARY 16, 2015**

Lestrade left the room in its semi-chaotic state, trusting that Donovan would re-establish order again. She knew how to take the reins, and he'd been passing them to her a lot lately. So leave it to her to finish articulating the Yard's objectives and assigning tasks. She was good at that sort of thing: she neither participated in nor tolerated overreactions of _any_ sort from _any_one, especially not from officers of the Met. She was a workhorse, and he knew exactly when to use her as one.

He held John's phone in one hand, his own in the other, and jogged down the hallway, ignoring puzzled looks from the officers veering out of his way. He had received no text messages himself, and neither had Donovan, and they seemed to have been the only ones. But he didn't have time to think about the rhyme and reason behind that right now. He was headed for the lifts. Sherlock and John couldn't have gone far. He had to find them, apologise, explain—

But before he reached the lifts, he heard them, voices echoing from behind a closed door to the loo at the end of an off-shoot, seldom-trafficked hallway. He recognised them by their voices: Sherlock's, deep, even rhythms, a study in equanimity developed over the last several weeks; and John's higher-pitched, afflicted cadences, a turmoil of sound. Their words, however, were indistinguishable from where he stood. The nearer he drew to the door, however, the clearer they became. He dropped both phones into his pockets.

'. . . away. Just stay back. Right there. Don't come any closer.'

'I'm not moving. Look at me, John. I'm staying right here.'

Lestrade halted, hand hovering at the door and debating whether he should insert himself in this scene.

'Not a step. And don't— Don't _look_ at me like that. Not you.'

'Do you need me to leave? I'll leave. If that's what you n—'

'You already did that.'

In the long silence that followed, Lestrade closed his eyes and bowed his head, feeling the weight of those words tug down on his heart. What was happening on the other side of the door, he could only guess. He imagined they were standing on opposing sides of the loo, each man's back against the wall, staring one another down. Or maybe they couldn't bear to look at one another at all. All he knew for sure was that both had fallen mute. John's reproof went no further, and Sherlock proffered no defence. Lestrade was just mustering enough courage to enter the scene himself when John spoke again. His voice had fallen quieter, but still brandished a sharp edge.

'What else have they seen?'

'Nothing.'

Another uncertain pause.

'Because that was . . . it was just after . . .'

He didn't have to finish. Sherlock already knew; Lestrade knew it, too. Though neither had spoken it aloud, they had each independently fitted this latest video into the reconstructed timeline of events, based on John's testimony and other evidence. The eighth cutting, on the eighth day, had taken place directly after Moran had given him over to the Slash Man, that first time.

'That video was destroyed,' said Sherlock, softly but firmly. 'It doesn't exist. I promise you. No one has seen it.'

'You did.'

'If I hadn't . . .'

'Lestrade did. And, and . . . Oh_ God._'

'And no one else. Not a soul. It's gone.'

John wasn't placated by this. 'But they saw this! All of them. How . . . on the floor . . . how it was, with him. They saw—' His voice cut and fell again in volume, strangely and alarmingly composed. 'They shouldn't have seen what they saw.'

'I know.'

'The looks on their faces. They were all so _disgusted_.'

'Not by you.'

John made a noise that Lestrade didn't understand. It wasn't a word, or even an exclamation of anger. It was guttural, fierce but smothered, as if by a hand or cloth. Something raw was trying to break free, but he wasn't allowing it. Then, again, in a peculiarly measured tone: 'You knew, though. What they would see. _You_ knew.'

'We fought it, John. Lestrade and I both. We tried to change the chief superintendent's mind.'

Lestrade hadn't expected that Sherlock would ally himself with him; rather, he had anticipated blame. He was the one who had conceded in the end; meanwhile, Sherlock had kicked over the rubbish bin in Gregson's office.

'But you didn't tell _me_.'

'I didn't know. Not until I got here.'

'Then why did you leave me behind?'

'I didn't know _what _I'd see, and Lestrade said it wasn't good. I thought it was best if I—'

'_Best?_'

'It's been a . . . a punishing week. I thought—'

'Punishing. Hm. Maybe so, but I'm still breathing, aren't I? I still woke up this morning. I wake up _every_ morning. Don't I?'

Lestrade's heart was pounding. He felt guilty, eavesdropping like this, but he couldn't pull himself away.

'I didn't want to add another bad day to the lot.'

'So there are bad days!' John suddenly bellowed. His voice rang clearly, and Lestrade threw a glance over his shoulder to see if anyone else had heard. A woman paused as she strode by; he gave her a sharp jerk of the head to keep moving. 'I have good days, I have bad days, you _know_ that. That's not new. But you promised me. Good, bad, and worse. You promised.'

'I know, but—'

'I thought we were partners in this.'

'We are. We _are_, John! But I never agreed to knowingly put you in a situation that might trigger another waking nightmare. I figured, that's not what friends do.'

For a moment, all sound was suspended. Then: 'I said _partner_, Sherlock.'

'There you are!'

Lestrade nearly jumped out of his skin as Donovan, who had been running down the hall, skidded to a halt upon seeing him around the corner. She started toward him.

'Call just came in: There's been another one, one of _his_. We're moving. London Bridge, south end. What's wrong, what are you doing?'

He was frantically waving an arm at her, to hush her, and grabbed her elbow to pull her away from the loo. But they didn't get far before the door swung open. John came out first, followed closely by Sherlock.

'Oh,' Donovan said under her breath, as close to rueful as he'd ever seen her.

'London Bridge, did you say?' said John tersely as he passed them up, moving pretty damn quickly for a man with a cane.

'John—' Lestrade began.

'We'll meet you there.'

Then came Sherlock. His face was stone, his eyes dark, and as he passed in front of Lestrade he leant close and said in a low, hard-edged voice, 'Get an earful, _inspector?_'

* * *

Though he was shorter than she, and though nearly every memory of him set him alongside and so in physical contrast to a towering Sherlock Holmes, Donovan had never thought of John Watson as a small man. She wasn't sure why this was so, exactly, why the descriptor had never occurred to her. _Short_, yes, but small? Never. Even in the beginning, before she had gotten the measure of him, she had always regarded him as the sort of man who could hold his own, who was outwardly placid but couldn't be bullied, and who, when push came to shove, wouldn't hesitate to shove _hard_. She barely remembered that when she had first met him, he had relied on a cane; that memory was eclipsed by the one of his socking the chief superintendent square in the nose before escaping police custody and bolting for the alleys. At the time, she had been scandalised. Of course she had been! Watson might have been a decent chap once upon a time, but then he had taken up with Sherlock Holmes. He was no good, they were _both_ of them _no good_ beatniks who had thought themselves grandiose men, above their fellows, above the _law_, even. 'Small' never came into it.

It wasn't until she saw him that day in hospital, on the other side of hell, in a body crushed and starved and a spirit wearied and wrecked, that the word first entered her mind. And it hadn't left.

She watched him now, getting out of the backseat of Lestrade's car. To no one's surprise, Lestrade had insisted that the pair of them ride with him rather than take a cab. This, of course, after his feeble protests that they not come at all, to which John, a spark of his former self flaring to light, had a ready argument: 'You need him; he needs me.' Oh, and one other: 'You can't stop me.'

Donovan saw both as high debatable.

And still, all these weeks after the hospital, to her eyes he looked small. Smaller than he had before the convent, that was, as if he still hadn't regained himself. He may have recovered the better portion of the weight he had lost while in Moran's prison, but he remained slight of figure, like a stiff breeze could knock him over and his hollowed bird-bones would shatter. It seemed to her that the skin of his face was wrapped on bone, not flesh, and where there was a scar or blemish, she was almost certain it must have been impressed into the bone underneath, too. Tonight he wore a coat disguising his skinny frame, but at their flat, the night of the shooting, when she had seen him in only a shirt buttoned to the collar, she had marked how thin his neck had seemed, how bony his shoulders, how gaunt his face; she could only imagine the damage and thinness hidden underneath all his layers.

It amazed her how a mere ten days could ravage a man. That said, it was no wonder Sherlock watched his every move like a hawk. But watching closely was one thing. It was unfortunate, really, that John had entrusted himself to Sherlock's clumsy care.

As they drew closer—John, surprisingly, in the lead—Donovan caught the tail-end of a conversation that had begun in the car.

'I've used that trick before,' Sherlock was saying.

'Yes, but _how?_'

'Research, Lestrade. It's simple enough. I thought you had it figured out. I inputted the mobile numbers of all the reporters from the press conference list—they're of public record—and sent a mass text. See? Easy.'

'Police phone numbers are _not_ of public record.'

'And crime scene evidence doesn't just _disappear_ from police lockers. You already know that the Yard is not as secure as you would like to believe.'

Lestrade sighed. 'So how did you know _when_ to send those texts? You weren't _at_ the press conference.'

Donovan saw Sherlock's lip quirk. 'Wasn't I?' It faded again just as quickly. 'Whoever sent those texts today must have had them on a sort of timer, sending them at perfectly spaced intervals. But to send three different messages all at once? I'm wagering that there were three phones involved, all from untraceable numbers. That's not the most disturbing part, though.'

'The seating.'

'Precisely, Lestrade. _Precisely_.'

Donovan stepped into their path, which meant cutting John off midstride. The foot of his bad leg skidded a bit on the pebbly pavement, and he had to hop on the good leg to re-establish balance. John glared at her, but she refused to feel guilty—this needed to be done.

'Here's what we know,' she said.

'You just got here,' said Lestrade.

'A touch faster than you did, so listen up.' She half expected Sherlock to protest and charge ahead to see the body, so she was surprised that he did not but instead halted and waited for her to continue. 'The victim is a white male, looking to be in his late twenties, early thirties. No indication yet of who he is.' Now, to prepare him. 'No clothes found on or anywhere near the body, except for shoelace binding his hands.' She was speaking directly to John now. 'He's pretty busted up, like the last one. Bruising, contusions, likely a few breaks. And those scratches.'

'Where is he?' asked Sherlock.

'Hanging just below the bridge.'

'_Hanging?_' Lestrade echoed.

'By the neck. They used cabling.' She looked over her shoulder, nodding in the direction she meant, behind Glazier's Hall. 'We've not taken him down yet. We're still sectioning off the crime scene, scouting for witnesses, just beginning the sweep for evidence. I imagine you'll want to see him in the state we found him.'

Before she had even finished talking, John was already moving around her, determinedly heading for the scene.

'That would be preferable,' Sherlock said, though lacking his usual enthusiasm. His eyes tracked John's resolute steps before falling in behind him. Then Donovan's eyes met Lestrade's. When John was just out of hearing, he said to her in an undertone, 'I know it's not _good_. But considering the threat, and with officers swarming the place, this may be the safest place for him right now. Just don't let him out of your sight, all right?'

They passed through a tunnel and down some concrete stairs where officers in knee-high wellingtons sloshed carefully through the near-freezing shallows of the Thames. The rest milled about up and down the narrow bank. Donovan herself came to a stop on the bottommost concrete step, letting Lestrade and the others continue on. She meant to survey the full scene, but her eyes returned to the poor bugger suspended below the bridge not two metres from the shoreline, wrists bound tightly in front, his bare feet dangling less than half a metre above the surface of the water. Naked, broken, and gently spinning in the breeze.

Above them, evening traffic continued on its merry way.

She watched as John came to a stop at the water's edge, and though she saw only the back of his head, it was clear that his attention was riveted on the hanging corpse. He leant heavily on his cane, which sank into the wet, grainy earth. He replanted it, but only to repeat the same effect. So he lifted out of the ground and rested all of his weight on his one good leg, using the other for balance. Already, Donovan wondered how long he would last tonight.

Sherlock charged straight into the water.

'What is it, boy? Trouble?' quipped one of the officers further down the bank from Donovan. Other officers laughed, and she felt her jaw muscles tighten.

But Sherlock ignored it completely. 'His face!' he shouted. 'Show me his face!'

At the signal from Lestrade to go ahead, two officers standing in the shallows took hold of the victim's ankles and, with care, turned him about. Sherlock circled around impatiently, seemingly impervious to the frigid water that engulfed his legs to the knee. He dug into his pockets for a small torch, as the provided light was insufficient, and when he fixed the beam on the man's face, his body stilled; his mouth opened as though to speak, but no sound came out. Sensing that something was wrong (more so than before), Donovan stepped off the concrete and came nearer.

'Sherlock?' Lestrade was saying. 'What is it?'

'_Who_ is it?' John asked, more softly.

Sherlock let the torch fall. His shoulders sagged. Then he turned around. Donovan was almost surprised to see his face so grim. In her experience, Sherlock usually wore one of three expressions at crime scenes: annoyance, haughtiness, and delight. To see him in any state close to morose was unsettling. He trudged out of the water, coming toward John and Lestrade.

'It's Ewan,' he said. He kept his back to the body. The officers had released it, and it began to rotate slowly at the end of the cable once again.

'Ewan?' said Lestrade. 'From the pub? One of your—?'

'Yes.'

'Drinking mate of yours, Holmes?' a nearby officer asked.

'Didn't know the man drank,' said another.

And a third, 'Didn't know he had mates.'

'Get to work, you berks!' Donovan barked. Then, to Sherlock, 'Ewan who?'

He cocked his head at her, bemused. 'I don't know.'

'You just said you knew him.'

'He never told me his surname. I never asked. We were merely acquainted. I knew things _about _him. But I didn't . . . _know_ him.'

John looked down at his feet and shifted his weight.

Sherlock coughed into his hand. Then he straightened, sniffed, and began. 'He was homeless, like the others. Born in Bexley, according to his particular brand of cockney, though he's restricted himself more or less to Central London for the past dozen years, which has muddled it a bit. Thirty-one years old, drug habit, likely an abusive past—my guess is the mother—no training or skills beyond pickpocketing and a memory for faces. Streetwise. Useful, that way.'

He looked back at the hanging corpse, and his face twisted in repulsion. 'Get him down,' he said. 'There's nothing to learn by leaving him up there. We know who did this.'

* * *

Ewan Nichols, as it turned out, was in the system, having twice been cited for public urination; he had been high both times.

By the time Sherlock and John left the crime scene, Sherlock could feel nothing from the knee down. His trouser legs were still damp and his socks still sopping with river water, but until he slid into the back of a cab, he gave no notice to these things. The numbness had been welcome, and the pain could wait—there was too much to think about.

One end of the cable had been secured to the railing that ran along the pedestrian path on the bridge above. The other end, of course, had been attached to Ewan. To get him down, they had used bolt cutters. As before, Sherlock got first crack at examining the body, though he had never felt less keen. In the end, he had learnt two things: one, Ewan's body had been thrown over the side of the bridge, plummeting some fifteen metres and ending in a cleanly broken neck; and two, Ewan had been alive, right up until the cable snapped taut.

He was the third victim of the Slash Man in three weeks who had all suffered the same fate: hands bound with shoelace, beaten, raped, murdered.

Sherlock couldn't the images to clear from his head.

'Don't do that,' said John softly, staring out of the window as the cab took them back to Baker Street. Lestrade had offered to take them, but John—disturbingly stoic tonight—had refused.

For a moment, he was confused as to what John meant. That's when he realised he was scratching again, and he pulled his hands apart and cupped his palms around wet knees. But John wasn't even looking at him and hadn't noticed his hands.

'You didn't know he was a target,' John said to the window, and Sherlock realized that John was watching him in the reflection of the glass. 'So how could you know what would happen to him? You can't save everyone. You haven't, in fact. You're not some kind of hero. Remember?'

Sherlock unglued his teeth and focused on keeping them from chattering. 'I spoke to him. Maybe that was enough to mark him.'

John didn't reply, but his silence was neither concession nor repudiation.

He had had no overt reaction to what he had seen at the crime scene, and for the better part of an hour, while Sherlock worked and Lestrade asked questions and Donovan barked orders, John had remained a voiceless onlooker. Posture, rigid. Expression, stolid. Now, he rubbed his leg at the knee, indicating a notable amount of pain (he had missed his six o'clock pain meds), and Sherlock saw, too, how the other arm was slipped inside his coat, and he held himself around the middle. A portion of his shield was crumbling; the physical strain was manifesting. Nevertheless, his face remained a deliberate exercise in passivity.

A few minutes later, Sherlock spoke again. 'John, about the video—'

'We don't need to talk about that.'

'You should know that Lestrade and I never intended to keep you in the dark. We had planned to tell you directly after the briefing.'

'So I heard.'

'If I had known more before I left—'

'Sherlock, stop. This isn't new. I know what he wants with me. I've known all along, all right? One more iteration of it doesn't matter.'

'I should think it would matter a little, the first real word from him since—'

'Well, it doesn't.' John was squeezing his leg now with a bloodless grip.

Sherlock let things fall quiet between them again, bracing himself for what he would ask next. Then: 'What he whispered into your ear . . . Will you tell me what he said?'

John cringed. 'No,' he said firmly. Then, 'It's not important.' Then, immediately on its heels, 'I don't remember.'

The cab rolled to a stop in front of 221.

'You're half frozen,' said John, pulling the latch and opening the door with his good foot. 'Take a shower and get your body temperature back up. Not too hot or you'll be in a heap of pain.'

Sherlock sighed and pulled out his wallet. He paid the cabbie through the window as John opened the front door and disappeared inside. Sherlock followed slowly, allowing John to disappear up both flights of stairs without having to exchange another word. He supposed he should be relieved that John was handling things so well. _Well_ being a relative term. He was upset, clearly, but after having seen and heard all he had today, Sherlock had rather been anticipating another intrusive image or panic attack to mark the night. He supposed he should be grateful that John was merely angry. But he couldn't seem to muster a feeling of relief.

His body was beginning to ache with the cold, even the parts that weren't wet. He wanted to get on the laptop and revise his notes, or call Mycroft and shout at him, or even just make himself a sodding cup of tea; but he knew that all of these things were just distractions so he wouldn't have to think about Ewan, his horrific final hour, or the last things the streetwise kid had said to him. He decided to follow the good doctor's direction and take a warm shower and scrub and scrub until he had destroyed every last nerve down to the synapse, until he could feel nothing at all.

* * *

John collapsed. He didn't even make it to the bed. His legs gave out just two steps into the room, and he fell forward, arms outstretched, and caught the edge of the mattress. It broke his fall, and he landed almost without a sound, but for the clattering of the cane. Bony-weary he sank, and exhausted, he had no power to rise. He stayed on the floor, settling himself with his back against the wall by the head of the bed, legs drawn in, head bowed low.

Whatever face he had presented to Sherlock, to Lestrade, and to a good portion of the Metropolitan Police, he was a churning sea beneath the untextured surface.

Though he had known of their existence, he had never seen the mobile photos for himself, nor had he wanted to. He hadn't even asked for the details. Now the images swam like sharks before his face. To see himself like that, to know that the pathetic mess of a creature on that screen was _him_, and to know that it accounted for mere seconds of hundreds of hours of anguish—it was unbearable. He had entered that room only seconds before the tech guy left and the door closed, and in the hum of noise and movement he had hidden himself in the back behind taller men and women. The panic of the tube ride had lessened considerably and the anger had returned, and each passing second stoked the flames a little higher. Until, that is, Lestrade had said the words _John Watson's old phone_. At once, he felt his gut clench, and though he had wanted to shout at Lestrade not to continue, or to bolt right then for the door, he found, to his horror, that the words had incited not his fury but his fear, and he was rendered paralysed. His breath faltered at the mention of his Mary. A pounding in his head escalated each time Lestrade clicked the remote and a new image burst onto the screen. His arms and legs numbed when Lestrade spoke his new and despised name, _Johnny boy_.

Then the video, and _oh God_, he thought he would faint.

He had been out of his head, fighting to see the colourless walls of a room at Scotland Yard and not the dripping red-on-stainless steel of a basement kitchen, but the images of bloody walls and flickering fluorescent lights swam in and out of his vision, solidifying, shimmering, fading, and solidifying again, and he didn't know whether he was standing on his own two feet or lying flat on the cold tile floor. All he knew was that his legs trembled and threatened to fold, and as the cacophony of mechanical bells erupted around him like sirens, he heard in that distorted music the haunting, whistled tune _O Danny Boy_ and Moran's dark and inescapable laughter. It swirled around him, all those sounds, like a cyclone, and on that fell wind, debris that sliced, cut, stabbed, and burned.

Until his own familiar tone sounded in his pocket, shattering the spell. Gone were the damnable noises, the bleeding walls, and only the throbbing pain in his chest and pulsing in his thighs and stinging in his back remained. The room and its one hundred eyes stared at him in horror and revulsion and indictment. He had to get out.

But those same eyes followed him to the crime scene. _They're not here, they're not here_, he thought as they cut the cables and lowered the stiff body onto a tarpaulin. He needed to build the walls higher, thicker, so no one could see him, so they would forget the man and see only the fortress. Then, when that same terrible laughter penetrated _those_ barriers, he thought, _Not real, not real, not real._ And while they set Ewan's body on the bank of the river, he had to remind himself, _Not me, not me, not me_. The forensics technicians' bulbs burst in blinding flashes of light as they snapped photo after photo of the devastated corpse, and meanwhile Sherlock began his own examination.

But something was wrong with Sherlock—his movements and deductions were as perfunctory as ever, but John noted a tightness in his mouth and lines of stress furrowing his brow, and his eyes were restless in a way that had nothing to do with his keenly incisive brain. He blinked far more rapidly than was his wont. This night had shaken him, though John wondered if he alone could see it.

And it wasn't fair. He needed Sherlock to be cold and detached, the man who had once treated dead bodies with the same deference as a head of lettuce, not the man who had regretted the supposed death of a woman who would one day take pleasure in hand-feeding him to ravenous wolves. He needed that old Sherlock to serve as coal to heat his own anger. But he found it impossible to hate a man in his grief.

He shivered against the wall, holding his head in his hands. He couldn't let Sherlock know how deeply Moran's words penetrated, or what words they recalled to his mind, words whispered menacingly into his ear as the stink of peppermint filled his nostrils. He tried so hard to forget them that the thought of reciting them aloud was unbearable. They took him back to hard orange tiles and unspeakable pain and a longing to die. And always, in the close distance, Moran's voice, calling his name. _Johnny boy. Just a dog. Johnny boy._

'There you are, Johnny boy.'

His head snapped up from his knees. On the other side of his bedroom, in the corner by the door, stood Sebastian Moran. His eyes were as dark as midnight, his mouth slanted in a malevolent grin. Between his thumb and forefinger, he rolled a silver scalpel.

John let out a breathless cry. There passed a moment of paralysis, but then a surge of adrenaline—born of terror—flooded his stomach, and next moment he scrambled up to his knees, threw himself at the headboard of his bed where, in a drawer, hidden during the day lest Mrs Hudson should find it, rested his loaded pistol, already hot as iron. He didn't think; all he could do was act. He seized the pistol, and in one swift movement, flipped off the safety, aimed at the man in the corner, and fired.

The bullet punched through Moran's chest, straight through the sternum, and he rocked back at the impact. But he did not fall. The grin slid away, replaced by an expression of utmost hatred that sent John reeling backwards until he fell against the wall. There, he slid, quaking, back to the floor, the gun held unsteadily before him, his finger a pressure on the trigger, ready to squeeze again.

Somewhere far away, he heard a mangled cry of dismay: _John!_

'You'll want to play nice,' Moran said.

There was a pounding, footsteps on the staircase, racing nearer.

'I'm not through with you yet.'

His own rapid breaths filled his ears like a windstorm.

Moran touched the bloodless bullet hole in the exact centre of his chest. 'Little fucker. I'll give you over to Daz for that. Here he comes.'

The handle on the door turned. John's head twitched first, then a split second later his arm came around, and he fired again.

The wood exploded. From the other side of the door, he heard a heavy collapse.

Moran stepped forward. John fired a third round, aiming for his head, which flew back, but only briefly, before settling itself once again with a deadly eye fixed on John.

'John, don't shoot!'

He gasped at the voice calling his name, as familiar as his own but one he hadn't heard in more than three years but in his dreams. His chest constricted, and his eye darted quickly to the door, which was opened a crack, just enough for him to see, at the foot of the door, Sherlock, on hands and knees, looking in.

'It's me! It's me!' he said, a hand raised in supplication.

'Sherlock, run!' John cried. His eyes had returned to Moran, pulled there with magnetic force.

'I'm coming in.'

'Stay out! He's here, oh God, he'll kill you! Run!'

But Sherlock was rising to his bare feet and pushing open the door. His hands were splayed and held out in front of him as he stepped gingerly into the room. He was half dressed, droplets beaded his shoulders and slid down his chest, and his hair was shining with water. 'It's just me,' he said in a low, tense voice. 'Please. Put down the gun.'

John trembled. His vision swam. The gun wobbled, but he readjusted his grip and took aim at Moran, who stood perfectly still in the corner with his silver instrument in a closed fist. And he was no longer looking at John, but at Sherlock. He raised the scalpel like a knife about to plunge.

For the fourth time, John fired. The bullet buried itself once again in Moran's chest, but this time he didn't even flinch.

Sherlock jumped away from the line of fire. 'John! Stop! It's me! No one's there. It's just me!'

'He'll kill you, he'll kill you,' John sobbed. He refocused the gun, aiming for Moran's heart.

'Look at me, John.'

He couldn't.

In two long strides, Sherlock crossed to him, lowered himself to a knee, and took John's head between his hands. 'Don't look at him. Look at me.'

'No. No!'

'He's not there. Trust me. No one's there. Only me.'

'But I see him. _I see him_.'

'Look at _me_.'

Moran threw back his head and laughed, and John's hands twitched around the grip.

Sherlock's fingers tightened around his head. He took quick, shredded breaths, shook his head to clear it, and said, 'All right, John. It's all right. Keep looking at him. Tell me what you see.'

'What?'

'Describe him to me. His face, describe his face.'

'It's, it's . . .' He was breathing so hard his ribs ached. 'Dark. Black eyes. Sharp and, and hungry . . .'

'Does he have a scar?'

Moran was fingering the holes in his chest. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock, and he looked murderous. But there was no scar.

'N-no.'

'The real Sebastian Moran has a scar running from cheek to cheek across the bridge of his nose. I know because I gave it to him. I slashed him across the face with his own carbon-steel knife. Do you see it?'

'No.'

'That's because he didn't have it when you knew him,' Sherlock said, his voice urgent, pleading. 'The Moran you see is a memory, a dream. Your mind is recreating only what you yourself have seen, John. The Moran in this room? He's not real!'

The vision before his eyes shivered, but only just. John's arms suddenly felt very heavy. The gun lowered by increments.

'Are _you_ real?' he asked breathlessly.

'John, look at me.'

It seemed to take all his strength, but slowly, John's eyes pulled away from the corner of the bedroom and found Sherlock kneeling beside him, eyes bright and hands strong and steady around his head. His left ear was full of red and dripping onto the floor. He looked real, but John continued to doubt. So Sherlock dropped one of his hands from John's head, turned his torso and bent his head to the side to point to the scar on his neck, an ugly seam of gnarled skin. With his other hand, he maintained the connection to John. 'I didn't have this before,' he said. 'Remember, John? Tell me where I got it.'

The thought came slowly, conjured from another world. 'Libya,' John said. 'The weapons smugglers.'

'And here?' He pushed back his wet fringe, showing John a sealed gash along his hairline.

'That's where . . . He hit you. With the gun. The night you found me. Molly stitched you up.'

'Yes! Now tell me—am I real?'

'. . . Yes?'

'Tell me where you are, John.'

'I'm . . . home.'

'Where's home?'

'Baker Street.'

'Good! Good. Baker Street. In our flat, and Mrs Hudson's on her way home, and we're going to ask her to tea and maybe watch some telly. Because it's just a normal night. A quiet night.' He nodded fervently at John, tried to smile, failed. 'Now, is he still there?'

John swallowed and looked back to the corner of the room. Moran smirked and lifted a finger to his closed lips; the black eyes were filled with warning, daring him to tell the truth. John's eyes returned to Sherlock's. He nodded subtly, fearfully, hoping Moran wouldn't see. His fingers, hot with sweat, slipped along the gun.

'That's all right, don't worry, you know he's not real. You know it. So we're going to make him go away.' He replaced his second hand on the other side of John's head again, encouraging John's focus to centre on him, and not the shadow in the corner. 'I want you to close your eyes.'

'I can't!'

'Trust me, John. Please.'

He felt like he was being asked to dive into deep, choppy waters, and he didn't know whether he'd be dragged down or be able to stay afloat. _He's not there_, he told himself. _Sherlock says he's not_. He took a deep breath, let the gun fall to the floor, and with both hands gripped Sherlock's forearms near the wrists. He closed his eyes. With his sight cut off, his other senses were enhanced, and all he could feel, hear, and even smell was Sherlock.

'I want you to remember our first case together. Do you remember it?'

John nodded in Sherlock's hands.

'Tell me.'

'The pink lady. The cabbie. He was going to kill you.'

'But you stopped him, John. You barely knew me, but you came after me anyway. You killed him to save me.' His hands tightened around John's head, warm and sure. 'You have to know that I would do the same. You have to know that if he were in this room, I swear I'd tear him to pieces. But it's us, just us. You and me. We're home, on Baker Street, and we're safe.'

John nodded, but his eyes remained squeezed shut. Some small part of him understood, logically, that Moran couldn't be in the room. Sherlock, however, wasn't appealing to logic; he was trying to satisfy a deeper need entirely. John continued to tremble, but for different reasons now.

'I need you to breathe. Slowly in. Slowly out.'

He hadn't realised how rapid and shallow his breaths were, how tight the muscles in his abdomen or how painful the burning in his chest. But when Sherlock began to count, and as he followed him as if he were a symphonic conductor, the feeling of constriction loosened. Only then did he know for himself that he really was on Baker Street. He opened his eyes. The corner was empty.

'Are you all right?' Sherlock asked, slowly removing his hands from John's head, and John released his arms.

He felt as though he were awaking from a terrible nightmare. He looked at Sherlock with wide, shining eyes.

'Jesus, Sherlock, I almost shot you.'

'I'm lucky your aim was off, for once.'

But Sherlock's levity did not dispel the horror of what had almost happened. 'I might have killed you. Dear God, I might have . . .' He looked again at the bloody ear.

'But you didn't.'

'Sherlock—' He made to touch the ear, to clear away the blood and discover the damage.

'You're thirsty,' said Sherlock. 'Come, John. Let's go downstairs.'

Indeed, he was horrendously thirsty. He hadn't even realised until now. So he let Sherlock pull him to his feet and leant against him for balance. They left the gun behind, on the floor, with the cane, and as they passed out of the room together, John saw three bullet holes in the wall in the corner of the room, and one that had blasted through the door. He felt sick.

* * *

He had come to a decision. It was something he should have done in the beginning, he knew it, but he had simply lacked the courage.

But now, after what had happened tonight, he had no choice. He was dangerous. He understood that now. And not just a danger to himself. He had proven himself a danger to Sherlock. And he could hardly stand that.

So something had to be done.

The bullet had only grazed the antihelix and outer auricular tubercle of Sherlock's ear, flaying open the skin and likely damaging the cartilage below. It had also left a burnt streak across his cheek that was barely noticeable but which drew John's attention as though it were flaming red. _Minimal damage_, Sherlock had said, flippantly, as John silently cleaned the wound and packed it with disinfectant and gauze. But John felt miserable about it. _One inch to left_, he thought, _and Sherlock would be dead_. The collapse he had heard would have been a body falling senseless to the ground, not a live man throwing himself to the floor to be out of range of a second possibly lethal shot.

It was now well past midnight. Fearing further nightmares, John made no move to go to sleep, despite the weariness that weighed down his every limb; so Sherlock did not either. And though Sherlock made noodles rather than send for takeaway, John couldn't eat. He spoke little, and only of filling the holes with plaster repair polyfilla, applying a new paint job, and replacing the door before Mrs Hudson could discover what he'd done. But other than that, neither said much at all. Finally, John put on the telly and pretended to watch, and Sherlock with him. But it was clear to John that Sherlock's thoughts were engaged elsewhere within that brain. He knew he was thinking about what had happened, maybe even working up a list of solutions. It was only a matter of time before he proposed one of them. So John had to beat him to it.

He snapped off the television.

Sherlock lowered his templed fingers to rest in his lap, observing John from his own chair. John, who had been ready to say what he knew he needed to say, found himself suddenly unable, so he began picking at a stray thread on the armrest and worrying his tongue against his teeth, steeling himself to speak. Sherlock simply waited.

At last: 'I'm taking myself off the case,' he said. He lifted his head, hoping his eyes conveyed his resolution, but he felt them burning, instead, with shame. 'For a time. While I get . . . help. And until . . .' He swallowed, wrinkled his nose. 'Until I have things . . . under control.'

There was no immediately reaction. Then, with a slow nod of unenthusiastic acquiescence, Sherlock responded, 'What do you need from me?'

'Nothing.'

'Try again.'

They stared at one another a long time without speaking. There would be no surrender from Sherlock, not in this. John realised that he was glad of it.

So he tried again, as best he could. 'Talk to me.' _Don't keep me in the dark._ 'Tell me what you learn, the important things. But not everything.' _I'll leave it to your judgement, what I need to know, and what I shouldn't. I'll try to trust you._ 'And, when I'm ready, bring me back on.' _And be here when I need you, and make sure I take my pills, and help me breathe, and pull me out of nightmares, and don't give up on me, no matter how bad things get. Don't send me away, and whatever you do, please, oh God please, don't leave._

'Deal.'

**End of Part 1**


	13. Jack and Jill

**CHAPTER 13: JACK AND JILL**

**FEBRUARY 2015**

Ralston Winters had been living on the street since he was fifteen years old, a senseless but scared boy without a thought for where he would lay his head or where his next meal would come from. He didn't consider that he'd never again sleep on a clean mattress or eat a shepherd's pie. He left home to escape his mother's abusive boyfriend, a mean drunk or a short-fused sober man, depending on the day. Though he loved his mother, he was tired of being the buffer between her and what's-his-name's meat-mallet fists. She wouldn't come with him, so he left on his own.

He'd gone back to the flat only once, three years later, when he was tired of scrounging meals from skips and snitching sweets and cigarettes from corner shops. But shame drove him home as much as anything, guilt at having broken his mother's heart. Even if she didn't want to see him, surely he'd get through the door and spend long enough inside to bum twenty quid off her, or even pinch a tenner from the jar of emergency cash she kept in the cupboard by the front door. But when he rang the bell, a stranger answered. His mum was gone, and nobody could tell him where to. For a couple of days, he looked for her around the neighbourhood. He talked to all the wrong people, evidently, and never learnt anything useful. Eventually, he just gave up. He never went looking again.

Ralston wasn't sure when it happened, exactly. The move from being just a wilfully dispossessed kid on the streets to becoming a homeless man, that is. Had it happened overnight? Or had he been walking that long, inevitable road from the start? Either way, he awoke one morning in Battersea Park from beneath a blanket of _Camden Gazette_s and _East London Advertiser_s and realised that, as he planned his day around begging pence and pound off commuters at the entrances to the Piccadilly Line to buy himself a pack of smokes, he was a man crawling at the bugger-arse bottom of the food chain. He was a slug in the form of a human male. He sludged his way in and out of shelters, up and down soup lines, and always, always, he craved a cigarette.

Among his fellows—other society-evicted humans of London's underbelly—he had friends. Acquaintances. Well, someone to bum cigarettes off of, from time to time. In any case, there was a sense of camaraderie among the homeless, born of shared disappointments and unspoken pasts and the commonality that they were all gutter dwellers now. But beyond that, they had little to bind themselves together as a community. Still, he knew their faces, their names. He could always tell the hardened dry meat from the fresh. He could spot the smackheads, the benders, the slags, and even the shitehawk ex-military lot, usually at a glance.

Though there were no leaders among them, a few had risen to a level of gutter-nob prominence. There was Alfie, who played the guitar better than Eric Clapton (they said) and who brought in enough street-corner dosh to rent out a flat (or so the rumours went), if he'd had the mind to. There was Pippa, thirty years old and had been so for the last twenty years, known for her tattoos and tourist photo bombs—a right laugh, that one. Then there was Pete, one of the shitehawks, who had a knack for busting cash machines and hacking computers, though no one had seen him around lately. And, of course, the bloke sometimes called _gaffer_, though he was still a young man, maybe Ralston's age, the one who knew the Detective. Ewan. Everyone knew Ewan, and he knew nearly everyone. 'It's why I'm useful to him,' he'd been known to say, a gleam of pride in his eyes, a chest swollen with pride like a cock's. 'The Detective needs a bloke like me to work his magic.'

Ralston? He was no one. No one of consequence or someone to tell stories about. Having dropped out of school and having never held a job, he was without skills, without talents, and without ambition beyond the next fag. He was bloody worthless, which anyone could tell at a glance and a sniff.

But then he met her. Nette. Nettie. His Nettie. She was golden, like dark honey. Skin, hair, eyes. Beautiful. Like Ralston, Nette had left home as a kid. For a couple of years, she stayed with an aunt and some friends, but eventually she cut herself off from them all. But they didn't talk about those days, Ralston and Nette. They never talked about the way things were before the street life. There was no point. The _point_, really, was that they had found each other. It was rather like finding a twenty pound note in the gutter, or an unopened lager in a skip. A real find.

Unlike him, Nette was fearless, which she attributed to her having been bitten by a dog during her first summer sleeping in London parks. She had unwittingly come upon the mutt's stash of bones while picking for supper herself in an alleyway behind a pub, and the animal had gone berserk. It barked and bit and scratched before locking its jaws around her thigh, and it took three pub boys hitting the dog with broomsticks and whipping it in the face with rags before it backed off. She was taken to A&E and sorted out well enough, but she didn't tell anyone her name for fear that they would find her father and tell him where she was. As soon as she was able, she was back on the streets, moving slowly and with a limp, but moving all the same. She told anyone who would listen that she'd survived a dog attack and seemed pretty damn proud of that. _Aint nothin can kick this ol girl_, she often said, feeling life itself had been kicking her plenty up till then. By the time Ralston came to know her, the limp was just part of who she was. _Tore up me muscles and then some,_ she told him. _Aint never goin be right agin_. He smiled and rubbed her leg through her coffee-stained jeans, though he suspected, from time to time, that she could have walked well enough, if she'd had a mind to, and that a lot of the real damage was in her head.

They were seen everywhere together. That was, they were hardly seen apart. And because not many knew their real names, they were often called Jack and Jill, which suited them both just fine.

He remembered the day the Detective died. Ralston hadn't been anywhere near Central London at the time, but word spread quickly enough. The man had gone crazy and jumped, they said, right off a hospital rooftop. Shot someone first, then just jumped. To Ralston, as to many, it came as a surprise. The Detective didn't seem the sort. But what did he know? He'd never met the man. Just knew the stories. _Damn good stories, too,_ they said to one another._ Too bad they weren't none of them true._

Ralston also remembered when those other stories began to circulate, the scary ones. Initially, they were fuzzy sorts of tales. A homeless woman attacked in a vacant multi storey, a vagrant man nabbed and beaten in Battersea Park. Nothing too unusual, at first. But more stories kept coming, and in time, the emerging details began to reveal sharp similarities. Not just attacks and beatings; these were rapes. By midwinter, every homeless person in every corner of London whispered of an attacker they all called the Slash Man, a monstrous-sized shadow of a sexual predator with claw-like fingernails. _Like a bear_, some said, and others, _like a vampire_. According to the reports, the creature was faceless, voiceless, and a cement mixture of frozen air and nightfall. _He appears out of nowhere_, the stories went,_ when you is alone, ravages you good and proper, like you'd expect of a hell-beast, and leave you a bloody, quivering, naked mess, to sort yourself out._

The Met looked into it, or so it was said, but no arrest was ever made, and by the time the weather turned and a warm breeze began to stir London again, the stories had petered out. Like a bad, confusing dream, Ralston more or less forgot about the whole affair. There were more pressing matters, like filling the belly and avoiding the coppers.

Spring passed, summer passed, and with autumn came rain and cold, like any other autumn in London, though perhaps with more of a bite in the air. Life was normal, and he and Nette were as happy as two homeless sods could be.

Then came rumour of the Detective's return from the dead, though initially Ralston dismissed them as mere ghost stories. The street dwellers loved to concoct mystery around such extraordinary figures, even the dead ones. Especially the dead ones. But then the papers began running the stories, printing the photographs, and even Nette swore she saw him one evening in Central London, getting out of a cab. Maybe it was true after all.

Not long after came the whispers of the Slash Man's simultaneous resurrection.

Then the murders.

Of a sudden, the Gaffer was dead.

An air of unrest had settled in the empty stomachs of the homeless men and women of London, and an unprecedented camaraderie grew among them. They huddled together, made pacts of solidarity and vows never to sleep alone. They told new stories now—about how the police were covering up the crimes, not solving them; about how Ewan had known too much and needed to be silenced; and about how the Slash Man and the Detective were one in the same and had been all along.

But he ignored them, all of them. He had his Nette, and she was all he needed, so bugger the Detective, the Slash Man, the ghost stories. They were none of them about him, after all.

Then, in early February of the next year, Ralston Winters was murdered.

* * *

The phone at the front desk rang twice before she set aside her emery board and picked up.

'Dr Thompson's office.' She blew the dust from her nail tips.

There was dead air on the other end of the line, and she was about to say hello again when she heard the slow intake of breath, so she waited. Then, 'Hello. Yes, I would like to schedule an appointment.'

She knew that tone. She'd heard it often enough in her capacity as a receptionist in this office. It was the recipe of reluctance: a generous serving of shame, light on the submission, mixed with a pinch of self-loathing. She felt a little self-loathing of her own, having become hardened to that tone.

'Are you one of Dr Thompson's current patients?'

'No, I—'

'I'm afraid Dr Thompson is not taking on any new patients for at least six more months, but I can refer you—'

'I'm not a new patient. I was seeing her before, it's just . . . I needed time.'

'All the same, sir, if you're not on the current list of patients, there's nothing I can do.'

'If you could just'—she heard him taking a steadying breath, and she knew that one, too; he was seconds away from either shouting or crying—'just ask her if she'd see me. Please.'

She sighed soundlessly, feeling the stirring of . . . what was that again? Oh yes, pity. It had been a while. In the end, it was the hard-spoken _please_ that caused her to relent. She sighed. 'Let me put you on hold.'

'Thank you.'

'Your name, sir?'

'Watson. John Watson.'

The name sounded _vaguely _familiar, but she brushed it off as quintessentially British. It was a common enough name. He might as well have given his name as John Smith. 'Hold please, Mr Watson.' She hit the hold button on the phone, stood, and walked to the closed door of office. The last patient of the day had left ten minutes ago, and Dr Thompson was likely finishing up her notes. She knocked lightly and let herself in.

'Yes, what is it?'

'I know you're not taking on new patients right now—'

'_No new patients_, Naomi, like I said.' Dr Thompson didn't lift her head but busily continued to annotate her latest session in her electronic files with rapid clicking of the keys. 'I'm full up at the moment, you know that.'

'I know, but I've just got a call from a former patient of yours. John Watson?'

Dr Thompson's fingers stilled on keyboard.

'He seems keen. I know it's not policy, but I felt like I ought to check with you—'

'Is he on hold?'

'Line one.'

Dr Thompson spun her chair to the phone and in the same motion lifted the receiver and hit the button to take the phone off hold. Naomi stared in surprise.

'John? Yes, this is Ella. Hello.' There was a loud pause in the room as the man on the other end of the phone spoke. 'Yes, it has been a long time, but that's fine, that's just—' Another pause. 'John, there's no need to apologise. None at all. Of course I can see you.' Her eyes snapped to Naomi, staring her down pointedly as she said, 'Can you come in tomorrow, say, eleven o'clock?'

'Dr Thompson, you have an appointment with Phyllis Cooper at elev—'

Dr Thompson covered the mouthpiece with a hand and hissed, 'Cancel it.' Then, back into the phone, 'Lovely, John. I'll see you tomorrow, then. Goodbye.'

'Who—?'

'That'll do, Naomi. Thank you. Schedule the appointment and contact Phyllis. Then you may leave early today.'

Naomi closed the door, her curiosity piqued. She returned to the desk computer and was on the cusp of making a quick revision of files in search of John Watson's name and history. Those records wouldn't have much information on him besides the date of his last appointment, but at least she would know how long it had been since he was in. In the end, though, she just typed his name into an online search engine. She was confused to see that her first hits brought up in greater prominence the name Sherlock Holmes, the shady detective who had faked his own death and got away with murder on a technicality, or so she understood. She'd not been following the story terribly closely, but it was hard not to know some of the details. But what did he have to do with . . . ?

She clicked on the first link, read two lines about the St Mary's Abductions, and said aloud to herself, 'Well, shit.'

* * *

Ella stood at the door to meet him when he arrived, punctual as he always had been. He was using a cane again, but that didn't dispel the military bearing. He had always donned _that_, as if walking into her office meant he was entering a battlefield, and he had to put on the proper armour. Only once had she ever seen him without the soldier's mask, and that was the first time he had returned to her after a long absence, shortly after Sherlock Holmes had died. On that day, he had come not as a soldier, but as a man. Just a man.

Today, he wore the soldier again, though there was something different, less certain about the way he carried it. As if it didn't fit quite right anymore, like it wasn't his own.

'John,' she said warmly, extending a hand. He shook it and smiled tightly. It wasn't a real smile—the lips pursed in a straight line and drew up a little, but no light reached his eyes. She knew better than to say she was glad to see him again. 'Make yourself comfortable,' she said instead.

When he had cleared the doorway, she set the lock and watched as he quickly took in the room again, everything from the windows with their parted curtains to the notebook lying open on her desk. Though it had been some three years since she had last seen him, she had made few changes and knew he would find it a familiar space. Most patients found that comforting. With John, though, it was always hard to tell where he derived comfort.

He took the initiative to close the curtains. She made no comment but turned on another lamp.

'My leg really did take a bullet this time around,' he said as he seated himself in the provided chair. 'If you were wondering. Thought it was time I earned this cane.'

Opening with a joke? It was a grim joke, but it wasn't a _bad_ sign. She sat in her own chair, angled towards his, and crossed one leg over the other. For now, she left her notebook aside.

'Glad you didn't spring for the wheelchair,' she replied with a smile.

'I would've done, but the stairs, you see . . .'

'Wise.'

They lapsed into silence. John rubbed his leg with one hand and stared at the other in his lap, which was balled into a fist. She considered how best to begin. There were some patients you just had to sit back and listen to, and the challenge was corralling the conversation into a fertile pasture. Then there were others that seemed like dead engines, but give them a jumpstart and their mouths ran like well-greased motors. John was neither. He had never been one for saying much at all, and every sentence had to be coaxed. What he held back never exploded in bursts of anger or frustration; he never broke down and cried; he never gave more than he was asked to give. Except for returning to her. He'd done that twice now.

But then, she'd never worked with him long enough to find out whether there was a toggle to flip that she just hadn't found yet, one that would get him to share what she wasn't directly petitioning. The first time he was a patient of hers, it was because the Army had mandated that he see a therapist in order to deal with his post-traumatic stress and keep receiving his pension. Given that she specialised in trauma therapy and had a particular focus on ex-soldiers, her name had been on a short list of recommendations. But he didn't have to choose _her_, and she had often wondered how he had landed in her office. He had stopped coming after a short four weeks, however, about the time he had moved into a flatshare with the now notorious Sherlock Holmes. The second time, he had come on his own, eighteen months later, when the same Sherlock Holmes (were there any others?) had committed suicide. Ella, who followed the news more closely than she let on, was sorry John had been tangled up in that mess. He came back only because he didn't know what else to do with his grief, and he hadn't kept on more than a few sessions. He hadn't really desired healing, either time.

She wasn't yet sure if this time was different. In fact, she wasn't quite sure why he had come back at all.

'Let's talk about why you're here,' she said after the silence had drawn on long enough.

He nodded, a gesture of agreement, not an acceptance of the implied invitation to begin talking. She would have to be more direct.

'What happened, John?'

He raised his eyes to her. Guarded, reluctant, but resolved.

She wouldn't bring up the St Mary's Abductions herself. She knew everything the papers said about it, as she had been following the story since before it was even called the St Mary's abductions, ever since mid-October when she had first heard that her former patient John Watson had gone missing. The more details that came out, the more sickened she felt. Not that there were a _lot_ of details, but the words _kidnapping _and _torture_ and even _sadism _had been used more than once, though what was meant by 'torture' was never defined. In fact, there had been speculation in editorials and on message boards that reports of abuse had been exaggerated, that there hadn't been any _real _torture. She believed it, though. Seeing John now, just the sunken, haunted look of him, she couldn't help but believe it. It would be John's choice, however, whether to open that door and lead her through it. Until and unless he did, she would not reach beyond her purview. Already, she was beginning to wonder whether she would need to recommend him to a different therapist with more specialised foci and experience in this realm. PTSD in soldiers returning from the battlefield was one thing. Ten days in a dungeon with a sadist? Well, that was another.

'I've been . . .' he started. He touched his forehead, half shielding his face while he collected his thoughts. He started again. 'I've not been well.' He swallowed. His eyes skittered to a small refrigerator against the wall where he knew she had once kept small bottles of water. 'I have these . . . nightmares. Hallucinations. I see things that aren't there, hear things no one else hears. I can't make them stop.'

'Nightmares and hallucinations,' she repeated to make sure these were the words he meant. At his nod, she asked, 'You experience these things both asleep and awake?'

'Yes.'

'How often?'

'Lately, every night. Most days.'

'What do you dream about?'

'Lots of things,' he said in a whisper.

She would have to nudge a little more. She had spent the evening revising her notes from their past sessions to refresh her memory. 'Like before? Do you still dream about the war?'

'Sometimes.'

'But not always?'

'Not often. Not anymore. There are . . . worse things.'

She judged that it was too early to peel back that layer of skin, so she gently steered it away. 'Why have the dreams brought you here?'

'They're bad. They're only getting worse. And I'm afraid of what I might do.'

'What might you do?'

His hand flexed and clenched in his lap. 'Hurt someone.'

'Have you?'

He let out a long breath. 'I woke up one morning, and my hand was stinging like I'd punched a wall. Thought maybe I had, you know? Swung my fist while I was asleep or something. I don't always sleep . . . restfully. But then I saw Sherlock. Side of his face was all swelled up, bruised, like he'd been punched. He hadn't gone to bed like that.'

'Did he say what happened?'

'Said he'd been to the bakery for scones early that morning and that some tosser on the street had taken exception to his face. It's what he wanted me to believe. And it wasn't implausible, given the . . . state of things. How people take to him. But that bruise was hours old. And what he didn't know was how badly my hand was hurting. It was my left hand, too. When I throw a punch, it's usually with my right. But it was my left. And it was the _right _side of his face. He doesn't think I can, but I know how to put two and two together.' He scrubbed his chin, frustrated. 'He helps me, sometimes, when he can see I'm having another one. A bad dream, that is. But he knows better than to touch me. If he did, if he tried to hold me down or something, that might explain why I lashed out at him. I don't know why he wouldn't tell me, though.' His eyes were hidden behind the hand again. 'It must have been pretty awful.'

'Did you tell him all this?'

'We don't talk about . . . things like that.'

'And is this incident what brought you in today?'

He shook his head tightly, a miniscule movement, and when his hand fell away, his face was mournful. 'I almost killed him,' he said without breath. 'I thought he was someone else, and I almost . . .' He couldn't say it again.

'Who did you think he was?'

He shook his head again unwillingly.

'John.'

She watched as he visibly steeled himself to speak. 'Da— One of the men who . . . killed Mary.'

'Who was Mary?' She knew. Of course she knew. But that wasn't the point of the question.

'My . . . my girlfriend.'

'So you attacked Sherlock because you thought he was this man, the one who killed your girlfriend, and you were . . . angry?'

This time when he shook his head no, he closed his eyes. 'Scared.' They opened.

'What of?' She needed to him say it.

He breathed carefully before answering. 'What he would want with me. Do to me. And if not to _me_ . . .'

'Go on.'

'To him. Sherlock. I'm afraid of losing him. Again. And if I do, I'm afraid of what would happen next.'

'What do you mean?'

His left hand began to tremble, and he covered it with his right, casting his eyes to the ceiling. When his head came back down, he said, 'If I had killed him, I wouldn't have given it a second thought. I would have ended it. Right then. I know it.'

'And the thought of dying . . .'

'It's not that. I'm not afraid to die. Not for myself. But if it had happened, like that'—his face screwed up—'Mrs Hudson would have been the one to find us. She would have come home, climbed those stairs, and seen . . .' He couldn't seem to finish the thought. 'I can't bear the thought of doing that to her. Or to Lestrade.'

She knew that name, too, from the papers. 'Who is Lestrade?'

'Someone who put everything on the line to save me. And then there's Molly. She works in the morgue at St Bart's, and might have been the one to . . .' He shook his head. 'How could I do that to them? After all they did to keep me alive, to keep Sherlock alive?'

'Sounds like a lot of people out there care about you.'

His eyes widened a little, as though stunned. Then blinking rapidly he looked away.

'Ella, I can't live like this,' he said. 'I'm scared all the time. If things keep going this way, I'll have to leave. And I can't. Not right now. So I need the dreams to stop, and I'll do whatever it takes. That's why I'm here.'

'You know we're going to have open that box—the reasons behind your fears. I'm going to ask you to talk about the hard things.'

'I know.'

'You can't overcome these fears or master your responses unless you confront them.'

'I know.'

'And it may take a while. Longer than you would like.'

'But I have to do this. If I'm ever going to feel even halfway in control of myself again, I have to do this. Don't I?'

But they didn't open the box that day. They needed to start in a place of control. So instead, they discussed his current physical health, diet, sleeping patterns, and exercise. She asked what medication he was on, when he last met with his doctors, and how long until his prescriptions ran out. They discussed a new anxiety medication she wanted to put him on, and the possibility of antipsychotics, if she determined that he needed them. Then together, they worked out what Ella called a _therapeutic_ _strategy_ for moving forward, a list of _do_s and _do not_s. He was to return to physical therapy, twice a week. He was to meet with her three times a week, at least in the beginning, and if he couldn't come in they would have their session over the phone. He promised to always come in. He was to avoid triggering stimuli as much as possible until he could work through them in the security of her own office. He was to repeat certain mantras to himself when he felt the first stirrings of panic, and before he went to sleep, and in the minutes after waking, and agree to whatever mental exercises she required of him in future. To all this, he agreed, but to the last point, he faltered:

'And finally,' she said, 'I want you to begin writing again.'

An unmistakable light of dread flashed in his eyes

'I'm not talking about a blog this time,' she said. 'This will be for you, and only you. In fact, you don't even have to keep it. Write on paper and burn the pages. Or type on your computer and delete the files. But you need to understand what happened to you, John. You need to get the bad memories out of the confines of your mind and into a space that you can encounter, calmly and rationally, with some distance. Putting it on the page will help you do just that.'

'I don't know . . .'

'Start small. Pick a memory you know you can handle. Find a tranquil space in the middle of the day, when you're wide awake, and write for only five minutes. When you're ready, work up to ten, to twenty. Write and rewrite the same memory, if that's what you need to do to face it. But you don't need to share it with anyone, not even me. I just need to know that you've done it. Then you'll be ready to talk about it.'

'You think this will help?'

'I know it will. Because John?'

She waited until his eyes locked onto hers.

'For you, writing is therapeutic. Writing is your way of ordering your world, of making sense of the absurd and appalling. It helped you before. And I promise you: It will help you again.'

* * *

Ralston awoke to the sound of whistling. It took him a moment to place the tune, what with his throbbing head, the dark, the disorientation. But it was as familiar to him as any child's nursery rhyme. _'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow_, he thought, mentally matching the lyrics to the notes as they sank into his ears.

Where was he?

It was dark, and he felt he was most certainly indoors. Though, last he remembered, he had been in free air and open sky. He and Nette had managed to scrape together eight quid between them, so they had gone for a pint at Shepherd's Knoll, an old pub just a stone's throw from Regent's Park. Yes, that's right. Two lagers each and some pence to spare. Then what? They had left Shepherd's Knoll at half eleven, half-pissed and falling into one another but laughing all the same, and then . . . ? He remembered it vaguely, almost as if it hadn't happened at all and his imagination had concocted the scene. A blow to the back of his head. He hadn't seen it before it landed, and even if he'd had his wits about him, he wouldn't have seen a thing. Arm in arm, they had been strolling in and out of circles of lamplight, shadow then light, shadow then light, then just . . . shadow. And that was that.

But now, a whistling.

And someone crying, softly. A sniffling, a muffled whimper. It took another minute for his brain to work properly—his head pounded and dizziness made him want to sink closer to the ground—but when the whirling, hazy thoughts settled, he recognised three things: he was sitting on a concrete floor, his back against a cold wall with a bag over his head; his arms and legs were bound and his mouth was stuffed with a wad of fabric (maybe a sock—he realised he wasn't wearing either shoes or socks); and the voice of the crying woman belong to his Nettie.

He screamed into the gag and twisted his body, trying to move. The whistling stopped. And another blow fell.

For untold hours (stretching into days?) Ralston and Nette were treated like animals, abused, humiliated, and violated. They were stripped of every particle of clothing and left to shiver in the dark; they were attacked with fists and claws; they watched each other endure sexual degradation of the vilest sort. And never once did their lone tormenter speak. He didn't have to. They knew who he was—the Slash Man—and they knew they were dead.

Though they had given up God long ago on the premise that he had abandoned them first, they cried out to him now, pleading for death. For Ralston, the magnanimous arm of mercy was extended. After three days of torture, his skull was swiftly and without warning split in two with a cleaver. As for Nette, God failed to hear her pleas. The Slash Man took her apart piece by piece.

* * *

Sherlock stood on the wrong side of the glass. His back was rigid, his expression unchanging; he gave a good imitation of a statue, but for the persistent drumming of his fingers where he held his hands together behind his back, his only outward sign of agitation. To his side stood Sgt Donovan, back just as stiff but arms folded in front and foot tapping. Her irritation was more apparent, though her reasons were likely quite different. No officer of any rank would feign pleasure when charged with _babysitting_, Donovan least of all, and Sherlock was still not over his ire at being relegated to this side of the glass.

Still, in one thing they were united: their loathing of the woman now being escorted into the adjoining room.

Kitty Riley took a chair and sat erect, hands clasped on the table before her as if _she_ were the one about to conduct the interview. When they left her alone, she cast a glance at the mirror, smiled self-assuredly, and resumed staring straight ahead. Once, she brushed her fringe out of her eyes and adjusted the collar of her Persian blue silk blouse; other than that, she remained dignified and still, waiting.

But the door to the observation room opened first, and Lestrade put his head in. 'My earpiece is in,' he said, 'but use the mic only if you have something important to say. And one at a time, yeah? If I get the both of you shouting at me at once I swear to god I'll throw the damn thing in the bin.' He backed up, half shut the door, but remembered something. He poked his head back in, 'And Sherlock. _Seriously_. Don't leave this room. Remember, you're here "on assignment", so don't do anything to jeopardise that allowance.' He gave a pointed look to Donovan to watch him, then another to Sherlock to behave, and at last exited.

'I'm not a child,' Sherlock muttered under his breath.

Donovan snorted but said nothing. She was still seething over the issue of the contracts and Lestrade's fancy interpretations.

Seconds later, Detective Inspector Lestrade strode into the interrogation room bearing a copy of that day's _The Sun_. There was no greeting, no preamble, no faux-playful _I hope you're comfortable because you're going to be here a while_. His demeanour had turned dark, quite unlike how Sherlock was accustomed to seeing him, and he got straight to it, threw the paper on the table in front of her, and said, 'Your source, Ms Riley. Now.'

She spread her hands to show them empty. 'Anonymous,' she replied.

'Enough of your bullshit. Those photographs were _classified_, and the property of New Scotland Yard, not to mention highly sensitive. So tell me. What are they doing being printed in vivid colour over three spreads of your goddamn paper?'

'Not his usual tack,' Donovan murmured.

Sherlock didn't respond, but he couldn't help but agree. This sort of behaviour, this sort of language, did not typically characterise the detective inspector, on or off the job. But he couldn't say he disapproved of the wrath boiling out of Lestrade now. His own reaction had not been far different when Mycroft had contacted him early that morning, a simple four-word text:

_Seen today's Sun yet?_

In print and online, an article written by that growing pest Kitty Riley featured six full-size photographs of the inside of the kitchen of St Mary's Convent, evidence taken by the Metropolitan Police on the night John Watson had been found alive. Gregson's phone had been ringing off the hook all morning, and he was livid. He had been heard reaming out the editor-in-chief of _The Sun_ (who had himself been dealing with a public outraged over the graphic nature of the photographs) from behind the closed door of his office, using language that made even the most hardened of officers cringe. Shortly thereafter, the photos had been pulled from the website and the newspapers recalled, but the damage had been done: They were out there, now, and some smart arses of the cyber universe, thinking themselves funny, were already at it, superimposing images of Johnny Depp's Sweeney Todd, Gordon Ramsey holding a butcher's knife, and captions reading _Bon Apetit! _and _Hell's Kitchen _into the scene of blood and carnage and posting them to blogs and media sharing sites. They made Sherlock sick.

Fearing John would come across these unprepared, Sherlock told him what had happened.

'Don't go looking,' he had said in the end.

'Bad, are they?' John's tone was faux-casual, but he was doing that thing with his hand again: clenching it into a tight ball.

'Yes.'

John paused to breathe. Then: 'How did they get them?'

'A leak, apparently. Lestrade is bringing Kitty Riley in now. I'm going down to the Yard. Share a cab?' John had a physical therapy appointment within the hour and agreed. Neither spoke the relief each felt at that.

Now Kitty lifted her chin, adopting a tone of self-righteous superiority. 'The public deserves to know the truth about what happened down there. About the dangers associated with Sherlock Holmes. I wouldn't _have_ to do this if the police weren't being so hush hush—'

'This is an _ongoing investigation_. Exposing evidence may seriously compromise the integrity of our progress, not to mention throw ordinary citizens into an unwarranted panic. That's why they were classified!'

'I didn't know they were _classified_,' Kitty Riley said coolly.

'Didn't bother to find out though, did you?' Lestrade rejoined. 'Is that how they teach investigative journalism these days? I do hope you've been sacked.'

'They wouldn't dream of it. I'm _The Sun_'s best reporter. Because of _me_, _The Sun_ is now the top-selling paper in Europe, three-months running. When I run a piece, print copies sell like corner fish and chips. Online, I get more shares and comments than _any _other journalist in Britain.'

Again, Donovan snorted, and Sherlock sneered.

'Don't be so quick to champion yourself,' said Lestrade. '_The Sun _has always been in high circulation. And brighter stars than you get snuffed out every day. Your editor might think you're the shiniest toy right now, but believe me, Ms Riley, the public will stand for only so much sensationalism before they demand the truth of things. Remember Hillsborough? Yeah. _You _are the new Kelvin MacKenzie. You've been feeding the people nothing but lies for years now. Forget about your career; they'll call for you blood. Your legacy will be nothing more than a trail of fiction and slander and—'

Donovan snatched the mic up from the table. 'The _case_, Lestrade. The _photographs_. Her _source_.'

'You can't scare me into confessing anything. I've done nothing wrong. And if I were you, I'd be more concerned about the _Yard's_ reputation, not mine. Solved any crimes lately? The four-month-old St Mary's Abductions trail gone cold, has it? Here's tip, a trail you've neglected to set your hounds on: Sherlock Holmes, notorious criminal mastermind and murderer. Ever thought to look into _that _one, Mr Lestrade?'

'Don't let her goad you,' Donovan said through gritted teeth; in any other universe, her glower would have shattered the glass between them.

'It's _detective inspector_, if you please,' said Lestrade, pulling back the chair and taking a seat. 'Now. Let's talk about those photographs.'

With an audible sigh of relief, Donovan set down the mic.

'Who is your source?'

'Three things, _DI_. One: I have _dozens_ of sources, so I couldn't possibly know which one you mean. You'll have to be more specific. Two: The law _protects me_ from revealing my sources. I'm kind of like a priest that way. I couldn't do my job if people thought I would expose them. And three'—she grinned, cat-like—'many of my sources are _anonymous_. I couldn't expose them, even if I wanted to.'

'You may come to find the _limits_ of that law soon enough. If it comes out that you knew something, _anything_, that can be construed as your own knowledge and didn't come forward? Well then.' He shrugged carelessly. 'You might be indicted as a conspirator. The court doesn't look too favourably on conspirators, I'm afraid. Especially not ones tied to murder.'

Her lips closed over her teeth, but she kept right on smiling.

'Best you can do now is show some willingness to cooperate with the police. You don't have the greatest track record with that, but surely we can turn it around. Right a few wrongs.'

'Oh, I am righting wrongs. _Your_ wrongs. I'm giving the people what they deserve, and that's the truth. A pathology expert examined those photographs, and you know what he told me? You read my report, didn't you? The amount of blood spilt in that kitchen? Too much for just two people. Even if one of them did bleed out, the other should have died too. So unless they were slaughtering pigs down there, which may explain the iron hooks dangling in the walk-in, the numbers just don't add up. This whole thing reeks of conspiracy, Mr Lestrade, but not on _my_ end.'

Sherlock's gut clenched, and he quickly accessed his internal memory files.

'Do you also believe the moon landing was a fake?' Lestrade said with a derisive laugh.

'Why won't John Watson talk to the press? The people want to hear his story, you know. But he ignores all my calls and emails.'

Sherlock frowned, momentarily distracted from his internal rummaging; he hadn't known Kitty Riley had tried contacting John at all.

'What's he hiding? Or, rather, why is he being silenced?'

'You forget who's interrogating who. You have illegally obtained confidential materials, which you have wilfully disseminated with wanton abandon. That's at least two charges right there. We're talking jail time.'

'A fine, at worst,' Kitty sighed. 'I've already spoken to legal counsel on the matter, before anything went to press. So here's the thing. I didn't _seek out_ confidential materials. They were sent to my inbox, _unsolicited_. As a matter of rights of the press, any materials—sensitive or otherwise—handed over to a reporter, knowingly and without coercion, become the property of the news outlet, to do with as is we best see fit. Time to brush up on your property law, Mr Lestrade. I'm an innocent party.'

He was not derailed. 'So you received the photographs via email.'

'That's right.'

'What did it say?'

'Nothing. No text. Just the attachments. Not even a subject line.'

'From _who?_'

'A ghost account. I tried to reply, but . . .' She shrugged. 'My email bounced right back at me.'

'Just the one email?' asked Lestrade.

'Just the one.'

'And when did you receive it?'

'Midnight. Two nights ago.'

'Were you at home or the office?'

'Home.'

'Checking your personal email account? Or do you check your professional account when you're off the clock?'

'A good journalist _always_ checks her professional account. She's always on the job—something you should know a thing or two about.'

'Answer the question.'

She brushed the fringe out of her eyes again. 'It came to my professional account.'

Sherlock snatched the mic up and hit the red button. 'How many photos? Ask her. More than the six they printed?'

He saw Lestrade grimace a little bit, indicating that he had intended to pursue a different line of questioning and that he didn't appreciate being jerked off track like that. Agitated, he pushed the chair back, stood, and started circling the table like a vulture.

'How many photos were attached to the email?'

For the first time, she did not have a ready retort.

'She's going to lie,' Donovan commented to him.

'And we're going to catch her at it,' said Sherlock, grinning deviously.

Lestrade came to a stop behind her. When she continued in silence, he leant in, one hand bracing himself up on the table, his mouth close to her ear.

'I believe I asked you a question, Ms Riley.' Sherlock saw her eyes drop to her interlaced fingers. 'The police took hundreds of photographs that night. How many were sent to _you?_'

Sherlock was getting excited. Mic in hand, he began pacing in what little space was available before the observation mirror. Donovan scowled.

'Six. Just the six. We printed them all.'

'You got her, Lestrade,' said Sherlock. Then he continued in rapid earnest. 'Open the paper. Ask her to point to the hooks she mentioned, the ones in the walk-in freezer. Make her show you.'

Lestrade reached for the copy of _The Sun _and pushed it toward Kitty Riley. 'Ms Riley,' he said, 'would you care to show me photograph of the walk-in freezer?'

She eyed him suspiciously, then opened the paper. The photograph in question was situated at the bottom of the right-hand side of the spread with the caption_ This utility-size freezer likely held the body of Mary S Morstan_. The shot was taken from outside the freezer where the door hung open, and was angled toward the blood-streaked stainless steel floor. The upper half of the freezer was not visible.

'Well?' she said.

'You mentioned hooks,' said Lestrade. 'What hooks?'

Her eyes fell back to the photograph.

'I must be mistaken in my recollection,' she said, squaring her shoulders.

'Or,' he said, 'you're remembering another photograph you saw. The imagination doesn't just supply those kinds of details.'

'You'd be surprised.'

'I'll ask one more time. How many photographs were sent to you from this _ghost account?_'

She shifted in her seat and sat up straighter. 'I think we're done here, Mr Lestrade. I'd like to talk with my legal counsel now.'

He smiled menacingly back. 'Sgt Donovan,' he said loudly to the glass, 'I think we've heard enough to have reasonable suspicion of Ms Riley's criminal hindering of an investigation.' He placed his hands flat on the table and pushed himself up to standing. 'Let's get a warrant to confiscate her personal computer and search her home, shall we?'

Sherlock and Donovan smiled.

* * *

Jack and Jill were found together in a skip less than a mile downwind of Shepherd's Knoll. A paper note was fastened to Jack's closed lips with a safety pin. It read:

_Ever drifting down the stream_

And to Jill's lips, another:

_Life, what is it but a dream?_


	14. The Rose and Kettle

**CHAPTER 14: THE ROSE AND KETTLE**

**FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2015**

At six in the morning, Lestrade's phone rang.

It was still in the pocket of his coat, which was draped on the opposite armrest of the sofa from where his head lay. With a great groan, he dragged himself up. He blinked, rubbed his stiff face, smacked his morning-dried lips, and reached for his coat even as the dream melted away, leaving him feeling like a dead weight was settled in his chest. Things weren't getting much better, in that regard, Dr Quinton be damned.

The caller ID read Mycroft Holmes.

He allowed himself another groan before answering.

'What.'

'A good morning to you, too.'

'It's still dark out, Mycroft. I was sleeping.'

He'd had another late one and hadn't even made it out of his shirt, and barely out of his shoes, before collapsing on the sofa, his head buzzing dully with fatigue. Kitty Riley had been charged with perverting the course of justice and obstructing police officers, although the charges had required a fancy bit of law interpretation, given that she wasn't _withholding_ evidence but exposing it, and they had yet to prove that her source was _not _anonymous. Perhaps tech forensics would uncover something more damning on her personal computer, as police hadn't turned up anything useful at her house. Donovan still held firm to the belief that whoever had sent the email to begin with had been the same source to reveal the information about the still-unrecovered items from the evidence lockers, and she was confident that it was a Yarder who had stolen them to begin with. She walked around the Yard glowering at everyone, suspecting all, trusting none.

When Ms Riley's convoy of solicitors and barristers—paid for by _The Sun_—had shown up, they first instructed their client to stop talking, then began spouting diatribes on freedoms of the press and haranguing the Yard for its cowardice, incompetence, and scapegoating tactics. They announced that they would have Ms Riley free before noon the next day, and _shame_ on the police for arresting an easy target when the real criminal was known and unmanaged. They meant Sherlock, of course, who had, by this time, returned with John to Baker Street and missed out on all the legal festivities. Lestrade had never wanted to be a copper less in his life.

Then, at nearly ten o'clock that night, just as he was getting ready to return home for a few hours of well-deserved rest, the call came in: two bodies found in a skip. Suspected but unconfirmed connection to the Slash Man killings. His night was just getting started.

Mycroft ignored his complaint. 'I know about the messages left on those bodies.'

'How?'

'Sherlock told me, obviously. This may surprise you to learn, detective inspector, but we talked half the night. He was in a right state, trying discern the meaning and trajectory of these slayings. I rather think he forewent sleep entirely.'

That did surprise Lestrade, in fact. Not that Sherlock hadn't slept—that was old habit—but that he had spent more than two minutes on the phone with his brother. 'And? Did the two of you clunk heads and figure out what the notes mean?'

'I've never had any interest in _riddles_.'

It was a Holmes' way of admitting he didn't know. In fact, it was nearly word for word what Sherlock had said, too, upon seeing the notes, shortly before launching into a lecture on the science of deduction being based on _fact_: the facts of the crime, the natural consequences to human actions, and the environmental conditions inherent therein. Riddles were puzzles of a fabricated and therefore artificial nature, a tease, not a science. But he knew he had to play. 'I'll work on it,' he said in the end, resigned.

'Leaving a note is a blatant taunt, as I'm sure you've inferred,' Mycroft continued. 'The killer is not at all attempting to obscure his identity, not if he's leaving you _hints_. He thinks he's clever—he _is _clever—and these latest victims do nothing to clarify the pattern but only obscure it further. Though his modus operandi has changed in some respects, I would not be so swift to leap to the conclusion that the victim profiles have as well. Rather, you have established the wrong profile and so you are misleading yourself.'

'For someone who talks an awful lot, you're not saying much. All we have to work from is the victim profiles! For all we know, these could be perfectly random hits!'

'They're not. There is no _randomness _here. I am sure that each victim was specially selected. But the reasons remain a mystery, and because of that, the stakes are growing ever more desperate. So even as we work on hunting these people down, we must take precautionary measures and protect what we can. I have another assignment for you, Greg.'

'Of course you do.'

'I need you to acquire some very sensitive information.'

'You do have minions, right? Little errand boys and girls you can send to—'

'_Lestrade_.'

Lestrade scrubbed his face even harder, as if he could scour the umbrage right off the skin. He was tired of Mycroft's tasks, of losing night after night of sleep performing them and seeing few if any of the results of his work. Mycroft never gave him follow-up details. Were they accomplishing anything at all?

'Yes, all right, what is it? What do I have to do?'

'There is a certain box of files—'

'Physical files?'

'Yes, physical files. Any government agent worth his salt knows how easily digital records can be hacked and recklessly disseminated, only to appear in public forums the very next day. Careless.'

Lestrade withheld a sigh of annoyance.

'This box is labelled MZ-106.5 RQ. Don't write that down. Repeat it back to me.'

He did.

'You need to locate the box, remove it to a safe location, and destroy it.'

'Right,' he said slowly. 'And where might this mystery box be located?'

'In a vault. Home Office, counter-terrorist division.'

Lestrade almost choked on his own morning spittle. '_Shit_, Mycroft! You're _shitting_ me!'

'What a vulgar image.'

'Just how the _hell_ am I supposed to break into Home Office?'

'I have it all in hand. You follow my instructions, step by step, and you're in and out, easy as that.'

'Oh no. No. Not this one. _No_, Mycroft. You know what happens if something—anything—goes wrong? If I get caught?'

'Do have a _little _faith in my schemes.'

'I shouldn't even be having this conversation! Your people probably bugged my phone . . .' He rose to his feet and moved away from the window, his eyes stabbing the dark corners of his quiet sitting room, half expecting to see a bug.

Lestrade could almost hear the eye roll. 'The line is secure, I promise you.'

Call it early-morning ire, he was in a state. He gesticulated wildly and shouted into the phone. 'I don't understand why you can't just waltz in there and collect the stuff yourself. That's _your_ pitch, not mine.'

'I could do that, yes. Easy as counting to three. But it would be best—for _everyone_—that no one know my interest in these particular files. It would be _best_ if they just disappeared.'

Lestrade could feel himself caving. Mycroft was persuasive. When you stood beside him, you felt your smallness; when he pierced you with his omniscient stare, you felt the full measure of your mental simplicity. And even over the phone, when he spoke with a voice of authority, it was as if God himself were giving commandment, and you hastened to obey, if only to dodge a swift smiting. How John had ever withstood the man, he would probably never know.

At the very least, his curiosity was piqued. 'Why?' he asked. 'What's in them?'

'That _would_ be reckless, to speak of it.'

'Oh, but talking about breaking into a government building isn't? Or giving me the file number?'

'Tell it to me again.'

'For the love of— Fine. MZ-106.5 RQ.'

'Very good. You've a knack for memorisation.'

'It's my proudest accomplishment.'

'You're making more of this than is needful. It is really a very straightforward and simple task I am asking you to perform. But if you are careless and do get caught, or if you are found in possession of these files before they can be obliterated, I will deny this conversation ever took place. I'll throw you under the bus, as they say.'

'You're a true friend, Mycroft.'

'Leave your house at 6.40 this evening and start walking. It doesn't matter which direction. Make no plans. A car will pick you up at seven exactly wherever you are. Wear rubber soles and dark clothes to burn after.'

It just kept getting better.

'Just—just assure me of one thing, Mycroft,' he said. He recognised that he was relenting even as he spoke, and his inner voice moaned loudly. 'This _does_ have something to do with taking down Moriarty. His people, I mean. Doesn't it?'

'These days, _everything_ I do is in that very interest. Everything you do, too, inspector.'

With that, the line went dead. The Holmes boys, it seemed, had never been taught the courtesy of a farewell.

* * *

'Are you comfortable? Can I get you bottled water?'

'Yes. Thank you.'

John sat nervously while Ella stepped over to the mini fridge to extract a small bottle of Evian. They had sat together for three sessions now, talking about John's daily routines, how (if) he envisioned his future, what seemed to be the most predictable triggers for his panic attacks, and how best to handle them. She'd done little more beyond that, other than change his anxiety medication, reissue Benzodiazepine, and encourage him to write. Yes, they were taking it slow, and he understood why. She was letting him get comfortable in that space, a space he had never been comfortable in before and couldn't say he was now. But when she had asked why he had returned to _her_ and not seen a specialist in the particular traumas he had experienced, he answered simply, 'You know me.' And that was the truth of it. Ella knew more of his history and past struggles than any other therapist, so he wouldn't have to paint the canvas new. And with that familiarity came a level of trust. He knew how she worked. He knew that, unlike Dr Peabody, she had not spoken to the press about him. To that degree, he trusted her, so despite Sherlock's doubts and Mycroft's scoffs, he had come back to Ella Thompson.

Today, he knew, they weren't going to ignore the closed box any longer. He took a long drink, half emptying the bottle. He thought how Sherlock would have anticipated this and brought him two.

'I'd like us to try something different today,' Ella said. 'An exercise that is new to you. It's helped many of my patients, and the literature on it reports encouraging results from case studies across Britain and France.'

'What is it?' he asked.

'It's called _safety zone therapy_.'

'Sounds kitschy.'

She smiled. 'Let me explain how it works. It's about encountering your fears in an environment you know and trust. Dr Ibrahim David offered the analogy of a child who is afraid of the dark. Alone in a dark room, the child's imagination conjures all manner of monsters and dangers. But put on the light so the child can see his own, familiar room, and the fears go away. The light is important, but just as important is the space. The child's bedroom itself is a place of safety and sanctuary. It has a power to protect all its own.

'Of course, with adults, and with true trauma situations, things aren't as simple as flipping a switch. But the principles are the same. Currently, John, you are unable to confront your traumas directly. But even as your conscious mind resists these troubling memories, you constantly dwell on them in a subconscious space. Asleep, these memories manifest as dreams—monsters and dangers, unbounded, like in a child's imagination. Awake, they are still there, suppressed, until, when triggered, they push through into your reality. They instigate panic attacks, hallucinations, and other physiological stresses.'

He nodded stiffly.

'To confront these traumas, as you must, it is imperative that you are at ease: calm and in control. Only then will you be confident in the knowledge that these memories have no further power to hurt you.'

Already, he was doubting the legitimacy of this exercise. He knew that trauma was reiterative, that it was memory itself that gave power to it and enabled it to hurt him at all. He was more inclined to believe that extracting the memories altogether and burning them in a pyre was more plausible than accepting the notion that recalling the horrors of that kitchen would ever lack the power to wound him again.

'Like I said, we can't just flip a switch. But we _can _tap into the same power of protective spaces that calm a frightened child. First, though, you need an appropriate space. I'm not talking about this office. I mean a _mental _space. I want you to _imagine _an appropriate space. This space needs to be peaceful, protected, a place in your mind you can retreat to when I tell you to go there. For this to be most effective, it is best that you envision a real-world place you already know intimately. So I want you to imagine that space now, John. Close your eyes. Good. Now think about a place you remember with fondness. Let this be a happy space, a secure space, one free of bad memories, worry, sorrow, or fear. It can be a childhood bedroom. Grandmother's sitting room. A house on the beach you went to on holiday once upon a time.'

His brow furrowed as he searched the recesses of his mind for a place that met Ella's criteria. He travelled cautiously down the corridors of his own memory, but every time he turned a corner, he halted, retreated; he feared what lay at the end of nearly every passageway.

'You don't need to say it aloud. In fact, it's best that you don't. It is your private space, so guard it; no one can enter it, not even me. Wherever it is, _that_ is your sanctuary, John. Yours.'

She gave him a moment to think, and in that silence, in the dark of his mind, he saw that childhood bedroom where he had cried himself to sleep, a boy whose mother was ravaged by cancer. He considered the smatterings of miserable, little shared flats in his early bachelor days, but he could name none of them with partiality. He remembered the medical tents pitched in the Afghan desert and the stench of blood and saline and body odour. He thought of the austere one-room flat the Army pension afforded him, its bare walls, narrow bed, and single window. And when the image of the sitting room of 116 Porters Avenue resurfaced in his mind, he felt something wrench inside of him. He shoved that image aside and found himself standing in 221B.

'Have you found one? Are you seeing it?' she asked him.

It wasn't a perfect fit—he knew it. In that flat, he had suffered his worst nightmares, his most debilitating panic attacks. Even before all that, his memory was littered with moments of unpleasantness, like finding a human head in the refrigerator; or drinking what he mistook for coffee but which turned out thrice-boiled halibut that had, for some reason, been stored in the coffee pot (he should have noted how the colour was off, but, in his defence, it had been a pretty early morning); or being woken at four in the morning by a series of mini explosions and the hiss of a fire extinguisher. But even at the thought of these things, his mouth quirked fondly. Even after all that had happened, 221B was where he felt—where he had _always_ felt—most at home. It was more comforting than the flat he had grown up in as a child, more familiar than his many flats as a young bachelor, and more real, even, than the home he had known on Porters. Eyes still closed, he nodded.

'Good. Now open your eyes. Here's what we're going to do, John,' she continued. She passed him a notepad and a pen from her desk. 'I'm going to ask you to recall an event, something that happened to you that still causes you distress. I want you to remember it fully and describe it out loud, in as much detail as you can bear. And whenever I ring this bell'—she reached for a small silver bell on her desk and shook it: a light tinkling noise, soft and friendly—'I want you to write a number on that paper. On a scale of one to ten, I want you to rate your level of anxiety. _One_ is perfectly calm and in control.'

'And ten?'

'I think you know what ten feels like. But I won't let things escalate to a ten.'

He inhaled slowly and held it.

'If you write any number higher than _five_, John, I want you to stop talking and to think of your safe zone, whatever space you have designated as your sanctuary. Imagine yourself there, and when you do, I want you to feel its positive energy and protective influence. Let the peace and power of that place absorb the undesirable emotions you feel.'

He worried, instead, about contaminating it. He looked down at the blank pad. 'We're really going to do this today, aren't we?'

'We're going to do it right now. How would you rate your level of anxiety at this very moment?'

'A four.'

His heart was making such a racket he was surprised she couldn't hear it herself; his palms sweated into the armrests and around the pen.

'That's a bit high to start with.'

'What can I say? I don't want to do this.'

'Maybe we should start in the safe zone then. Go on, John. Close your eyes again. Picture yourself in the space you've designated as secure. Empty it of any clutter, noise, or people. It's just you.'

There was nothing for it: she was pushing him onward, and if he didn't want to stumble, he'd best move his feet. So he imagined the sitting room of 221B at midday, with its well-used chairs in front of a cold hearth and the mirror hanging above the mantle; he imagined the long curtains framing the tall windows and the high bookshelves stuffed with encyclopaedias and dictionaries and nineteenth-century penny dreadfuls; he pictured the wooden floorboards and plush red-and-gold rugs; he saw the dark chocolate fleur de lys trellis on the walls, the skulls, the teacups and coffee mugs and open laptops and loose pages spreading across the desk. Clutter? Oh yes, and he'd forgotten which was his and which wasn't. Not that it mattered. Not really. Nor was the flat a quiet space. Outside, the loud hum of cars and buses as they rolled by on the street; and from the kitchen, the clinking of beakers against flasks while a fresh brew of coffee dripped into the pot (he could smell it); from the stairs, familiar, eager footsteps; and just behind him, the sigh of a violin. He couldn't see him—but he could hear him, feel him, in every corner of that space, all at once. She had said to empty the space of everything and everyone but himself, but there _was_ no 221B without Sherlock.

And now, the tinkling of a bell.

On the pad, he wrote the number two.

'Tell me about the day you were kidnapped,' said Ella gently.

The violin missed a note. But the smell of coffee still hung in the air.

'I took the wrong cab,' said John, beginning.

* * *

The police did have some skill at finding people, even those who did not wish to be found, which was how Cleona Winters came to be in Bart's mortuary, standing over the body of her slain son, whom she had not seen since he had run away from her thirteen years ago.

'That's him,' she said. She was a tall woman, fifty years old, perhaps, and with a face hardened by a lifetime of bitterness. Her voice was husky, still accented by the Jamaica she had left as a girl to come to this country in search of a better life. What she got instead was poverty, abuse, and a murdered child. Though her expression was impassive, the tears flowed freely down her cheeks. 'That's my Ralston.'

Beyond the double doors, the father of Lynette Avery wailed unrestrainedly in the arms of a new mortuary attendant for his dead daughter.

Molly stood to the side as Dr Torrence zipped up the heavy black bag, hiding the battered face of yet another victim. She had spent the last day and a half with those bodies, inside and out, cataloguing every abuse and running every test and making a full and urgent report. The similarities to the other victims were there: bound hands, sexual assault, evidence of strangling, and trace amounts of sodium hypochlorite. But whereas Winters had died from a blow to the head, Avery had died from blood loss. As with every corpse that came through her morgue, she had regarded the bodies in pieces: the eye, the liver, the toenail. She had to, or she wouldn't have been able to do her job. It wasn't until the loved ones came that the reality of their humanity struck her, and she could no longer divorce the soul from its tabernacle. Each time, it took all her all her remaining fortitude to keep herself from weeping with them. So it was today.

'It's him, isn't it,' said Ms Winters. 'The one I've been reading about in the papers. He's done this to those other homeless boys?'

'You would have to talk to the police about that,' said Dr Torrence, though not without sympathy.

'Why have they not _done_ something by now?' she cried. 'How many is it going to take! My boy's dead, and he's not the first, and look what they done to him. Just look!' She suddenly started to shake. She bowed at the waist and covered her face in her hands.

Dr Torrence gave Molly a look that she understood at once, so often had she seen it over the years. She stepped forward, put an arm around the grieving woman, and steered her toward the door. It would be her job to settle her, get her to sign the appropriate paperwork, and see that she was taken care of.

By the time Molly left St Bartholomew's for the day, it was six o'clock and the sun was already an hour gone from the sky. She caught the 46 bus, and as it rumbled through the city, she took out her phone to check for missed calls. There were none. She thought about phoning Greg, just to say hi, but she knew that with this latest double murder (Sherlock had been certain that they were killed in the same location, and though she had determined that they had died about a day apart, they were still being classified as a double murder), he was likely to be too occupied to take her call. And so, refusing to feel the stab of disappointment or the long ache of lonesomeness, she shoved the phone back inside her handbag, hugged herself tightly for warmth, and waited until the bus trundled to her stop.

Her postbox was empty, her neighbours' windows dark. She rattled about in her handbag for her key and fitted it in the door, thinking of the hot shower she would take to wash away the stink of formaldehyde. The key turned easily. Pushing the door open, she entered the dark flat and groped for the light.

'Cheshire!' she called, followed by a _sswsswss _sound to summon her cat. At six months old, he was at last content to be left alone and now knew to use the scratcher board and not her wallpaper and curtains. She expected him to be lazying on the sofa, where she normally found him, but instead he came trotting in from the kitchen.

'I hope you've not been naughty,' she said, scooping him into her arms. She tapped her nose against his and stroked his calico fur. Then she dropped him on the sofa, shed her coat, and tossed her handbag onto a chair.

She was just removing her shoes when she noticed, on the cleared, round dining table, a single rose and a white card standing on its end. Her heart skipped a beat and a slow smile crept across her face, hardly daring to believe what she saw. She and Greg had exchanged keys two months ago, but neither had yet taken advantage of the implied invitation that they were both too shy to speak. But oh! He had left her a rose! Why would he have left her a rose? But of course, she remembered now. It was February 13. In all the madness of their lives and jobs, she had all but forgotten the approaching holiday. She was touched that he had not.

Still smiling, heart now tripping, she picked up the long stem and put the petals to her nose, breathing in deeply. She remembered that he had once suggested she put flowers in the mortuary, to 'liven things up a bit'. A terrible suggestion, for reasons of practicality if not tact, but one she would never forget, and she supposed, now, that he had a liking for flowers. She'd actually never been given flowers, especially not as a romantic gesture, but she suddenly decided that she liked them, too. Very much.

Then she picked up the card. Her name appeared on the outside in a beautiful, looping scrawl. And inside, in the same hand, these words:

_Molly, put the kettle on.  
We'll all have tea._

She laughed aloud as the nursery tune popped into her head. So this was a game, was it? She had heard of couples sending one another on scavenger hunts, but she'd never done something like this before. Leave it to a detective, though, to send her after clues.

Humming the tune, she left the card on the table but took the rose with her into the kitchen, still breathing in its fragrance, as though she could filter her whole world now through the scent of that flower. She turned on the tap and reached for the kettle. But when she lifted it, she felt something heavy already inside slide along the base. Her second clue? She set aside the flower and eagerly lifted the kettle lid.

Molly screamed. The kettle clattered loudly, fallen upon the kitchen tiles.

Inside the kettle lay a dead bird.


	15. One Hosts Three

**CHAPTER 15: ONE HOSTS THREE**

**FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2015**

In her haste to leave the flat, Molly crammed the note into her pocket and scooped Cheshire into her arms, but she forgot her hat, gloves, and handbag. She hurried through crowded, lamp-lit London streets, hugging the squirming cat close to her chest beneath her coat. He wasn't liking it one bit.

It wasn't until the cat scratched her deeply across her collarbone and down her chest, wriggled his way out of her coat, and streaked for the skips that Molly was pulled out of her fearful stupor. She chased after him, calling his name and begging him to come back, but he disappeared into a dark alley. Molly's feet came to a sudden stop on the threshold where lamplight met shadow.

'Oh Cheshire, please,' she said into the mouth of the alley. People continued along the pavement behind her like she was a stone in a stream, some offering a cursory glance, others sniggering heartlessly or tsking sympathetically, but they all moved along just the same. She stood there pleading as the minutes passed and cold crept beneath her coat and slid against her skin. She shivered. For a moment, she was on the verge of panic, clamping two hands across her mouth while pacing in front of the black alley.

'Trouble, miss?'

She gasped and turned to see a hefty man in a leather jacket and a flat cap, who stood in the centre of the pavement, hands deep in coat pockets and shoulders hunched against the cold.

'You looked upset, was all. Can I help?'

Without a word, she turned and ran.

She ran for who knows how long. When she finally came to herself, she realised how far she had gone, and how cold she was, and she knew she needed to call Greg. She came to a stop on a corner and shoved her hands, stiff and beginning to hurt with cold, into the pockets of her coat in search of her phone, only then remembering how she had put it in her forgotten handbag, which also carried cash and cards. She whimpered, tears building behind her sinuses. Why hadn't she memorised his number? She couldn't even pay the bus fare to his house, let alone cab fare, though she knew better than to take a cab. But it didn't matter anyway—she'd left his key behind with everything else. How could she have been so careless! So foolish! She could return to the flat, she supposed, and bother the landlord, who kept residence on the ground floor, to let her in. But what if someone was waiting for her there? She hadn't searched the bedroom or the bathroom, after all. What if someone had been in hiding, just behind a door or around a corner, waiting to— She couldn't bear to think it. Just the thought of stepping foot inside her own home right now sent her quaking. She couldn't do it. Not alone.

But her finger brushed the note in her pocket.

And that was when she realised she was walking again at a good clip, brushing tears from her cheeks and sniffling to keep her nose from running. Her feet were pointed toward Baker Street.

She was going for an opinion. A consultation. That was all. Just to get his perspective. And, maybe, to get him to roll her eyes at her for this dramatic response to such little upsets. He would point out to her that there were perfectly logical explanations for everything—the rose, the note, the bird—and she'd simply been spending too much time around dead bodies lately. He would explain it all thoroughly and in one breath and let his tone and eyes alone berate her, and everything would be fine. There would be no need to bother Greg after all.

* * *

She pressed her thumb to the buzzer: two dashes, four dots, just like she'd been instructed back in December. Her initials. While she waited, she cleared her throat and patted her cheeks, hoping the redness and puffiness could be blamed on the cold.

She wasn't buzzed in. Instead, she heard uneven footsteps descending the stairs, and moments later, the front door pulled open. It was John.

'Molly,' he said, half in welcome, half in surprise. A look of cold guardedness slid away, as though he had been anticipating a different MH.

'Hello John,' she said, her voice pitched higher than was natural. She swallowed hard. 'How are you?'

'Come in, it's freezing,' said John, treating her question as a salutation, nothing more.

She followed him up the first flight of stairs. He was walking without his cane, relying instead on the banister or the wall, and she wondered if this was a new thing, a positive thing. She wasn't one to judge, though, especially because it felt like ages since she had seen John herself. In the morgue, while he was examining the bodies of that homeless couple, Sherlock had mentioned in passing that John had returned to his physical therapist (a thought inspired, it seemed, by the scar tissue on the woman's leg, coupled with the uneven wearing of the bones in her feet that Sherlock thought might have indicated a limp). He hadn't commented further on John's condition. Since the day Sherlock had stated plainly that John couldn't stand him, he hadn't spoken to her at all about his state of being, physical or otherwise, though—and Molly wondered if she were being intuitive or just nosy in thinking it—it seemed that he wanted to.

'Is Sherlock—?'

'He's out,' said John. They'd reached the landing, and he held the door open for her to pass into 221B. 'Doing what Sherlock does best.' There was a twinge of acrimony in his tone.

'Oh.' She felt suddenly embarrassed for coming, uninvited and unannounced. In the comfort of this flat, fleeing her own in such a state now seemed a very silly thing to have done. All she'd accomplished was stranding herself and losing her cat. But now, a feeling of calm and safety enveloped her, and if John didn't mind, maybe she'd stay a while.

'Let me take your coat,' John said. 'Maybe get you some something dri— Molly, is that blood?'

Her coat was halfway down her shoulders, and she looked down at her shirt where a line of blood had soaked through her collar and left breast pocket.

'Cheshire,' she said, 'my calico. Still just a kitten, really. He . . . he ran away. On my way over.'

She saw his confusion and knew that she was making little sense, but he didn't question her. His face softened and he took her arm, leading her to the kitchen. 'Let me help you clean it up,' he said. 'Cat's claws can lead to nasty infections.'

He sat her at the table and busied himself in cupboards and at the sink, returning with a first aid kit, a bowl of warm water, and some white cotton flannels. He asked her to open her blouse a few buttons and hold back the collar while he cleaned the scratch over her collarbone. There were three scratches, about five inches long, but only the centre one was deep enough to bleed.

While he worked, she tried hard not to stare at him, but it was difficult not to. It wasn't just the facial scars, the grooves in the skin left behind in the wake of a knife; it wasn't the slightly offset nose, a remnant of a break; it wasn't even the shiny skin on his neck, caught in just the right light, that spoke the burning of a leather strap. These things scared her. But it was more than the wounds in a living body that fascinated her: it was something she couldn't name. It was in the way he carried them, an indescribable quality of shadow and light existing in the same plane. She could hardly believe that this was the man she had known three years ago, or the same man who had lain in a hospital bed in critical condition for so many days, just a matter of months ago. All three versions seemed to be different people entirely, men who couldn't possibly share one life; and yet, in the man who sat beside her now, she saw echoes of the other two play across his face every time he turned his head.

'Thank you,' she said when he was finished. She buttoned her blouse again over the thin strip of gauze he had used to let the wound breathe. 'You must think me pretty silly, coming all the way over here for help with a scratch.'

'Is that why you came?'

He began to repack the first aid kit. His tone was casual, but his eyes, when they glanced up to meet hers, were incisive.

She smiled to show she was all right, but she couldn't hold it, and it slipped completely off her face, replaced by trembling lips. 'Sorry!' she said, her voice strained as new tears welled in her eyes. She stood and turned her back to wipe them away, moving into the sitting room. She had thought she had herself together, at least to the point where she could speak without a thick throat or falling to pieces. And maybe with Sherlock she would have been able to. She would have been on her guard, or at least in a more logical frame of mind. But for some reason, with John, her defences dropped away, exposing her disquiet and laying bare her fear. She couldn't understand why this was so.

Molly felt his hand on her back as he stepped to her side and guided her to the sofa. There, he sat with her, keeping his hand steady between her shoulder blades. While she cried, he asked no questions but instead served as an empathetic vessel who, without her having to say a word and without knowing the cause, understood that she was afraid. And maybe that was why she knew that, if she could talk to anyone, she could talk to John, because hers was a fear he had known.

'Someone was in my flat today,' she said shakily. 'I came home, and there was a rose on the table, and a note.' Oh, it sounded so harmless! Even _she_ was sceptical of any true danger now.

But John didn't scoff. 'What did it say?' he asked, his voice gentle as milk.

She nodded to where her coat hung by the door. John arose and put his hand in the pockets, extracting the crumpled note with her name on. After he read it, he lifted his head, his face grim.

'There was a dead bird in the kettle,' she said. 'So I got out of there as quickly as I could.' She covered her face with her hands. 'I thought the rose was from Greg!' she cried. 'But it wasn't him. It wasn't him.'

The sofa sank again beside her, and John put his arms around her and pulled her close, letting her cry. He stroked her hair to soothe her.

'They know, don't they?' she said into his gaunt shoulder, unable to keep her body from shaking. 'That I'm the one who knew he was alive. They know!'

'Shh, shh,' he said.

'They'll think I'm important to him. And they want to hurt him, I know they do. So they'll go through his friends. That's what these people do.'

'Molly, don't—'

'I can't do it,' she said, pulling herself back.

'Do what?'

For a moment, she was unable to continue; her imagination conjured atrocities too terrible to name. He reached for the box of tissues on the coffee table and brought them nearer. She pulled one out to wipe her face; she could feel how splotchy and puffy her skin still was. 'I'm not strong like you are, John. I won't hold up against that sort of . . . The kinds of things they did to . . . I'm sorry.'

She meant torture, but she couldn't say the word. Ashamed, she cast her eyes down to her lap, but instead she saw John's hand rested on his own knee. The scars from the wire cuffs stood out on his left wrist.

'Don't apologise,' he murmured softly. He surreptitiously tugged his sleeve to cover the soft, pink lines.

'I don't have any more secrets,' she said, unable to stop herself. 'What if they have no reason to keep me alive at all?'

She waited for him to tell her that nothing like that would ever happen to her, that she was overplaying the danger or misunderstanding what she had seen in her flat. But he didn't. He made no pretence of regarding her fears as anything less than reasonable. Instead, he stood. 'Come with me,' he said, extending a hand.

Confused, a little frightened, but trusting him all the same, she put her hand in his. He helped her rise and led her out of the sitting room and to the staircase leading to the second storey. As they ascended, John, still holding tightly to her hand, dropped the banister to pull his phone out of his pocket. She saw him scroll through a short address book and land on the name _Sherlock_. With a thumb, he quickly typed out a simple text:

_Come home_.

He brought her into what was clearly his bedroom, though it was hard to imagine that anyone really lived here. It was as sparse as a room could be: a bed, a bureau, and a bare three-legged bedside table with an unshaded lamp, all simple in design, all drab in colour. There was nothing on the walls, not even a mirror. Even the window stood un-curtained, revealing nothing but a rickety fire escape and a solid brick wall on the other side of the back alley.

John dropped her hand and walked to the headboard of his bed where he opened a small drawer and pulled out a black pistol. She tensed.

'Here,' he said, extending the weapon to her, grip first. 'I want you to hold it.'

'John, I can't—'

'Like this.' He ignored her protests and stood closer to demonstrate a proper grip. 'Right-handed, yeah? Tuck the grip right here, in the web between the thumb and forefinger. Three fingers curl around the grip, like this. See? Use your left hand to anchor yourself and stabilise your aim. Place it right here, over your other hand like this. Yeah? Like you're praying.'

He taught her how to flip on the safety, and how to flip it off. He told her about sight alignment, how to look at the front sight on the slide and align it with the rear notch, and how to level it at a target. He explained to her how to squeeze the trigger, smoothly, and how to lean gently into the shot and anticipate a recoil.

Then, to show her the gun was harmless, he reached back into the drawer and extracted a magazine, which he tossed on the bed. He pulled the slide back swiftly to show her a hollow chamber. Finally, he pointed the gun at the opposite side of the room and pulled the trigger twice to show her that it was, indeed, empty. But with each click, she jumped all the same.

'Hold it,' he said, pressing the gun into her hands.

She curled her fingers around the grip, warm from his hands.

'How does it feel?'

'It's heavy,' she said, a little surprised by the weight.

'And that's without the magazine. It only gets heavier. Every pull of the trigger, the heavier it becomes. So fire it once, and make it count.'

A firm and unrelenting teacher, he made her hold it with two hands, just as he had shown her; he adjusted her grip, showed her how to lock her right arm and slightly bend her left, how to keep her arms straight as she raised them to aim at a target. Then he placed himself on the other side of the room, touched the centre of his chest at the sternum, and said, 'Right here. This is a kill shot.

She nodded fearfully.

'Take it.'

'What?'

'Practise aiming. Pull the trigger.'

'I can't, John.'

'The gun is empty.'

She knew it was, but she asked anyway, 'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

She hesitated.

'You won't get a chance to think about it when it counts, Molly, you have to be prepared. You have to know what it feels like. So when I tell you, you aim and shoot. Got it?'

'God, John.'

'Align your sight. This is your target.' He jabbed again at the centre of his chest.

'_God_, John!'

'Molly, _now_.'

She raised her arms and pulled the trigger. All she heard was a small click. But she could barely breathe.

'Good,' he said. 'That was good. You were a bit _too_ quick, actually. You fired before you had locked onto your target. You just shot me in the stomach.'

Molly shook her head, apologetic and not sure why. 'That's still lethal.'

'Yes, but it's going to take me quite a lot longer to bleed out from it. And I'll be in agony while I do. A quick, sure death is right here.' His fingers rammed his chest a third time, hard enough to bruise. '_Fire_.'

She lifted the gun and fired again; an imaginary recoil vibrated through her body, and she jumped.

'There it is,' he said, approvingly. He returned to her side of the room and took the gun out of her hands. She sighed with relief, but then he slammed the magazine back into the well, flicked the safety on, and put it back in her hands to make her feel its full weight.

'When you shoot, Molly,' he said gravely, a hand on her shoulder, 'you shoot to kill. Hear me? You don't give him a second chance.'

* * *

'Man, I don't think I should be talking to you.'

'Why not? You just said you were by Shepherd's Knoll that night. If you saw or heard something—'

'Shut up, man, I ain't saying nothing because'—the kid's volume dropped and he looked around shadily—'I don't want a target on my back.'

'What target? Who's making threats? Tell me, and I may be able to—'

'Man, _you're _the threat. Don't you get it?'

Sherlock straightened and his mouth closed. The kid was maybe sixteen, and maybe still had a home to return to, if he wanted it. Sherlock was mistaken to think that a younger man would be ignorant of who he was and therefore be more likely to talk. The kid took another step backward, distancing himself.

'None of this would be happening if not for your bloody return from the dead. We all know it. Old Man Reaper, he ain't satisfied, is he? He's angry. You cheated him, and we're the ones paying for it. That's the word.'

'That's absurd.'

'Yeah? Well.' The young man kept shifting his weight, casting glances to the shadows. 'Some of the blokes ain't too happy with you. They're thinking to do something about it, too. Evening the score, so to speak.'

'How?'

The kid shrugged, checked the stretch of alley to his right, and said, 'That's all I got, man. Nah, man, I'm done.' And he bolted.

Sherlock kicked a stone in anger and heard it skip down the street like a stone on a pond. This wasn't the first time he'd gotten a reaction like that one.

He decided to continue on to Shepherd's Knoll and question more patrons when his phone went off. He recognised the personalised text alert, but he was momentarily stunned by it, and it took him a moment to understand why: it was message from John, and it was the first time John had texted him in three-and-a-half years. It read:

_Come home_.

He didn't even think twice. He stepped out into the street and hailed the first cab he saw. Sliding into the back, he said, '221 Baker,' and moved his thumb to reply to the text to tell John he was on his way.

'Oi, I know that address.'

He lifted his eyes and saw the cabbie staring at him in the rearview mirror.

'Problem?'

'221 Baker, we _all_ know that one. They print it in the paper every day, in one place or another. You're him, ain't you? You're that Holmes character?'

'Hardly relevant. I'm paying you to do a job.'

'Nah, I don't want none of _your_ money. Out you git, Mr Holmes.'

'_Pardon?_'

'Not in my cab, no sir. It may be I's just a cabbie, but _this_ cabbie don't chauffeur no criminals. Out you git, and don't make me say it twice.'

Next he knew, he was standing again in the street as the black cab peeled away. He was incredulous, fuming. He was _not_ a criminal, and damn them all for believing the twisted lies of Kitty Riley. Sheep. And damn her lawyers and _The Sun _for putting up bail. She would be sleeping comfortably in her own bed tonight while all of London quailed at the false words dripping from her pen.

Turning onto a more major road, he hailed the next cab he saw, kept his head down as he climbed in, and said, 'Corner of Glentworth and Melcombe', which was just around the corner from his front door. He sat back in the chair, kept his head down, and resolved to buy a hat as the cabbie, no questions asked, pulled away from her kerb.

He arrived on the doorstep approximately thirty minutes after receiving the text. He hit the buzzer to announce himself (three dots, four dots), and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, both eager and apprehensive to discover why he had been summoned. The text could be read as urgent, or terse, or annoyed; but any way he read it, the direction was clear, and he followed it.

To his surprise, he found Molly Hooper in the sitting room with John. She sat in his chair with her feet drawn under her and sipping what he could smell from the doorway was a strong cup of tea. John was in his own chair, also with a cup. They had apparently been involved in a very intense conversation—Sherlock knew the look of one. Their heads came around as he stepped into the room. Molly's blush was fresh and she quickly dipped her head to sip again from her cup, but John just stared at him as though he had never seen him before. The expression was unfathomable.

'What has happened?' he asked, even as he scanned the room for clues. There were several spent tissues on the coffee table (Molly must have been crying when she first arrived); the first aid kit lay open on the kitchen table (she had been hurt); there was blood on her shirt; and John's pistol lay in plain sight on the small table at John's elbow. Whatever it was, it wasn't good. He waited for an explanation.

John pushed himself to his feet, limped to the coffee table, and picked up a crumpled piece of paper. 'When Molly got home today,' he said, 'she found that someone had been inside her flat. They left her a rose and this note.' He passed Sherlock the note.

His brow furrowed as he opened it to find a nursery rhyme substituting the name _Polly_ with _Molly_. He sniffed and got a whiff of eau de cologne. Not Molly's.

'She looked in the kettle and found a dead bird,' John finished.

Sherlock flattened the crumpled paper on the table top. Then he stepped over to the lamp in the corner and pulled the cord. He angled the card so that the light spilled across the writing, casting shadows into even the slightest impressions in the paper. More words, as though someone had written on a page set atop this one. He grabbed a pencil from the table, and with its flat edge rubbed gently across the indentations until the message, written in the same hand, began to appear:

_You always did gravitate toward the unremarkable.  
Or maybe she's more delicious than she seems. xxx_

He frowned. His mouth fell open, prepared to spew forth his deductions and launch into a string of questions. But then he saw the trepidation on Molly's face, and the caution in John's eyes, and he switched tracks.

'John, a plastic bag, if you would.'

While John went to the kitchen to fetch one, he stepped closer to Molly. 'Are you all right?'

She nodded, but she did not look all right.

'The blood—'

'Cat scratch. Nothing serious.'

'Have you called Lestrade?'

'I . . . forgot my phone. Keys and everything. In the flat.'

He nodded.

John returned with the plastic bag into which Sherlock dropped the card. 'Anything else in left your flat? Anything touched? Moved? Missing?'

Her look of distress deepened as she tried to remember. 'I don't know,' she said. 'I didn't notice. When I found the bird . . .'

'I need to have a look around, it seems. You are welcome to stay here, of course. John won't mind.'

'You'll need me to get in,' said Molly. 'Mr Fazal, the landlord. He won't let you in unless I'm with you.'

Sherlock grinned slyly and started to say, 'I think I can manage—' but John picked up the pistol, and as he tucked it into the back of his trousers, he said, 'Looks like I'm coming, too.'

* * *

'The flower was on the table, just here,' said Molly, pointing. She moved into the room, but Sherlock had paused in the threshold. At first, she thought he was waiting, vampire-like, for an invitation to enter, and her tongue fumbled a bit as she started to say, 'Um, you can, that is, do you want to . . . ?' But she trailed off as she realised that, like the flipping of a switch, he had entered deductive mode: he had stepped onto a crime scene, and his eyes were scanning wall to wall, floor to ceiling, and every inch in between. He sniffed the air like a hound and cocked his head to listen for any unusual sounds.

'Er, Sherlock?' said John, who still stood outside the door and was blocked from entering. 'You want to let me in?'

Rather than answer, Sherlock stepped purposefully into the room, turning like a dancer, three hundred and sixty degrees, still observing, sedulously touching nothing. It occurred to her that, though she had seen him investigating many times before, she had never seen him at a crime scene. It was a different style, a different art, to that of examining corpses, and it was fascinating.

John came in behind. He had brought with him his cane, so clearly he was not off it completely. Just around the flat, it seemed. And though he, too, surveyed the room, his was an air less of inspection and more of vigilance, as though assessing the flat for weak points in the fortress and places to establish a night watch.

'Where's the rose now?' asked Sherlock.

'Kitchen,' said Molly. 'Shall I—?'

'Show me how you found it.'

She re-entered the kitchen, gave wide berth to the fallen kettle, and grabbed the rose, which lay perched by the sink. Back in the sitting room, she lay it on the table.

'Just like this,' she said. 'And the card was here.'

'Who has access to your flat?'

'Just Greg. And the landlord.'

'And the landlord's wife.'

'Well, yes.'

It had been she, Mrs Fazal, who had let them in, as Mr Fazal was not at home.

'Very well. I'll need to see everything.' He leant into his next step, but halted, re-evaluated, and, rocking back, added, somewhat perfunctorily, 'May I?'

'Whatever you need to do,' she agreed.

He gave a sharp nod. 'John. Check the integrity of the locks on the windows and door. Tell me if you see anything amiss.'

She watched them set to work, a little spellbound. Sherlock moved like a bird, flitting to and fro, if only methodically and with calculated purpose. He was high (stretching his neck to the tops of her bookcases) and low (crouching to look under the coffee table and below the sofa), back (to the door) and forth (measuring the steps to the dining table); and soon he had exhausted the sitting room and was fluttering about in the kitchen, opening cupboards and drawers, fiddling with the tap and the cooker and coffee pot. She heard him dealing with the bird, too (she heard the fridge door open, so she knew exactly where he had put it), but despite feeling sorry for it, she didn't want to see it, so she stayed in the sitting room and watched John.

John worked with the painstaking efficiency of a practised surgeon: while not exactly slow, he certainly wasn't rushed. He tested the double bolts Greg had had fitted on the windows and pressed fingers into every corner of the panes until he was satisfied that they were well and truly secured; and he spent a fair amount of time examining the strength of the lock on the front door and looking for signs of a forced entry.

'Where's the fire escape?' he asked.

'It's just off the balcony,' she said. 'In the bedroom.'

John nodded and started in that direction, but Sherlock had just left for the bathroom, and Molly took John's arm to stop his leaving.

'John, what I said back at your flat,' she said softly; she was suspicious of Sherlock's sense of hearing. 'I, um, I maybe shouldn't have told you what I did.'

'I'm glad you said it,' he said. The water kicked on in the bath. Seconds later, Sherlock exited the bathroom, leaving the showerhead running, and disappeared into the bedroom. 'Really.'

'I feel that I may have broken confidence. I want him to believe he can trust me.'

'Molly, he does trust you. And he has every reason to.'

'Yes, but—'

'But I promise,' he said, his eyes very serious, 'I won't let on that I know . . . anything . . . of what he said. All right?'

She nodded gratefully. But she couldn't stop herself from adding, 'I just want you to know, well, I mean, if there's anything, anything at all, I can do, to help, that is . . .'

He smiled softly as a gesture of goodwill. 'Let's worry about you tonight, yeah?'

Sherlock was striding back toward them. Swinging from a lacy strap looped around one finger was a black brassiere.

'I take it this is not your own?' he said mildly.

Molly's eyes widened as she stared at the article draping Sherlock's hand. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, a sense of mortification she couldn't account for, given that the item was definitely not her own. Still, the feeling of having been violated was keen. She shook her head vehemently.

His eyes flicked down to her chest. 'I thought not,' he said.

'_Sherlock_,' John scolded.

'This is a C cup for a 32 bust,' Sherlock returned, ever the practical one. 'Molly's barely a—'

'_Don't!_' Molly said.

'You've been in her underwear drawer?' said John. 'Sherlock—that's _not_ okay!'

'I promised I would conduct a thorough search,' said Sherlock, apparently not understanding the objection. 'Sock drawer, underwear drawer, medicine cabinet—your Zolpidem is expired, by the way. I suggest you throw it out.'

Molly's blush deepened, and John groaned and rubbed a hand across his face.

'Problem?' Sherlock looked to John.

'Tell me you found more than a black bra, Sherlock.'

'More than a—? John, you don't see what this _means?_ Of course I found plenty!'

He led them into the kitchen. The kettle was repositioned on the cooker; Molly knew she'd be spending a fair amount of time scrubbing it out.

'Do you like claret, Molly?' he asked, reaching into her cupboards.

'Um, yes?'

'Do you have any on hand?' He pulled three wine glasses from the highest shelf and set them in a row.

'No, I rarely buy it myself, but on special occ—'

He whirled to the fridge and pulled it open. Inside, she saw a single bottle of claret. Pulling it out, he shook it enough for both Molly and John to hear that it was half empty. '_Someone's_ been enjoying a splash of wine,' he said, and plunked the bottle beside the glasses. He lifted one. 'Two things, then. First,'—he raised the glass to eye level and pointed—'the remaining drops of claret still pooled at the bottom of the glass.'

'In all three glasses?' asked John.

'There's a fourth.' He pulled down another wine glass. 'One for the hostess, and one for each of her three guests. Symbolically. Only one person was in this flat. These clues were planted, down to the drop. _This_ one'—he turned the glass around so they could better see the other side of the rim where the imprint of dark crimson lipstick stained the glass—'is more telling. From a bottom lip, obviously. An observably deliberate gesture.'

He set down the glass and turned abruptly for the back of the flat. 'Now, as for the bathroom—'

'But Sherlock,' said John, 'what about the bird?'

'It's a wren. Moving on!'

Molly heard John sigh out his exasperation as he followed after her and Sherlock.

He had been running the shower, as hot as the water would go. When they entered, the warm, humid air engulfed them. Sherlock twisted the knob to off; he didn't have to say a word beyond that. On the mirror, they could clearly see the image of a smiley face streaked across the glass:

Sherlock quickly pulled out his phone, wiped clear the lens, and snapped a photo.

'And now to the bedroom.'

Again, they trailed behind him until they entered Molly's bedroom. All the sheets had been pulled off the bed, and her underwear drawer still hung open. She hurried to close it.

'Nothing more of interest in there,' Sherlock said offhandedly, 'and nothing else in the room has been touched. Save by me.'

'Then what are we doing in here?' asked John.

'I wanted Molly to see that it is perfectly safe in this room.' He faced her head on. 'I checked the balcony myself. It's secure. She came in another way. Mostly likely straight through the front door.'

'She?' Molly and John said together.

Sherlock proffered a look of wonder at their combined average intellects. 'Irene Adler.' Then he marched out of the room in what looked to be a temper. 'Obviously.'


	16. Rhymes with 'Fall'

**CHAPTER 16: RHYMES WITH 'FALL'**

**FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 13, 2015**

When Sherlock announced, 'We're spending the night' as though it were simply a matter of course, Molly, though unused to having anyone else in her home, offered only a token objection. She fully expected it would be overridden, and it was. She really didn't want to be alone in her flat. Not tonight. And Greg's phone had gone straight to voicemail.

'You're sure you don't mind?' she said, continuing in the vein of apology for being such a burden.

'Not remotely. John will do smartly on the sofa, won't you John?'

John bobbed his head once. 'Of course.'

'What about you?' Molly asked.

Sherlock smiled to reassure her. 'Oh no, I'm fine. Couldn't sleep if I tried, too much on the brain. May I borrow your laptop?'

After setting Sherlock up on her laptop and offering them both something to eat (John declined straightaway, and Sherlock said that he knew his way around her kitchen well enough and insisted that she not bother herself with tending to them), Molly passed through the kitchen, turning down the lights as she went, and on to the laundry where she stored extra blankets in a cupboard. It was just in sight of the sitting room and not quite out of earshot, and she noticed that, at her retreat, John had stepped closer to Sherlock, his head bowed a little, and he spoke out of the side of his mouth. Molly pretended to be occupied, but she held her breath to listen.

'I've forgotten—that is, I haven't taken my pills.'

From the corner of her eye, she watched Sherlock incline his head toward John, speaking just as softly. 'I can go back. I'll hurry—'

'No no, it's fine. Just. Erm. Just stay alert, yeah?'

Sherlock agreed with a nod. Then they parted.

When she was certain that the private moment had passed, she returned and set the stack of blankets at the end of the sofa.

'You're sure there's nothing more I can get for you? Tea? Coffee, Sherlock, if you're going to be up all night anyway?'

'Thank you, Molly, but I'm fine. John? Chamomile?'

'Nothing for me, thank you, Molly.'

At last, she retreated to her own bedroom (which she'd had Sherlock double check for anything amiss and John examine for security). With the door closed, she stood still and listened to the distant murmur of their voices, tones mild and words indistinct. She found she was glad to hear them, glad of their presence. It was a little odd, though, to hear men in her flat, to _see _men in her flat, especially men settling in for the night. And even though it was strangely comforting, she was still a little on edge. A woman—one she knew nothing about, beyond the memory of seeing her dead in her morgue—had been in her home, in her cupboards and bathroom and underwear drawer. Beyond naming her, Sherlock hadn't said anything more about her, or even why he suspected (he must have suspected _something_) that the woman (was she a former lover?) had broken into Molly's flat.

Still, just a woman. A crazy one, perhaps, a disgruntled ex most likely, but at least it wasn't the man who had taken John. There was some relief in that. She felt rather foolish now for nearly losing it and crying in front of him. Tomorrow, they'd track her down, and they'd get Greg to arrest her on the charge of breaking and entering. And that would be that.

Thinking of him again, she went for her phone and called his number, but her heart sank when his voicemail picked up instead. She wanted to cry, or scream, or throw the phone against the wall. Seconds passed in silence after the tone as she debated what to do, what to say. In the end, she could manage only two words: 'Call me.' And she hung up.

* * *

Molly's bedroom door had been closed for some twenty minutes, but neither Sherlock nor John made any sign of retiring to bed.

'Well?' said John. He sat forward on the sofa, elbows on knees and fingers loosely laced. Sherlock was reclined in the under-stuffed overstuffed armchair, fingertips templed, head inclined—his usual pose for intense contemplation.

Sherlock's head came up. 'Well what?'

'I can practically _hear_ you thinking. You're joining dots, aren't you? You've figured something out.'

'I can't claim to have solved the puzzle,' said Sherlock, 'but the picture _is_ becoming clearer.'

'Care to share?'

'Do you really want to know?'

'I think I ought to. If Molly's in danger—'

'Aren't we all.' He looked at John without turning his head. 'Will you be leaving her the gun?'

'I already have,' said John simply. Then, to fill the pause, 'It's her best chance of defending herself, if she must.'

'Where is it?'

'In the top drawer of her bedside table. Taped to the ceiling of the drawer with a strip of duct tape.'

'To avoid its being discovered too easily.'

'Yes.'

'Good.'

'So will you tell me now?'

Sherlock considered. 'How are we doing tonight?'

John nodded emphatically. 'Fine. I feel fine. I'm a two.'

He was never a one.

Sherlock dropped his hands to the armrests where the fingers of his right hand began to drum the faded pink upholstery. He was eager to talk. 'It has long been a question in my mind as to whether'—he wrinkled in nose in distaste—'that _woman_ was playing any part in this scheme. Darren Hirsch we are certain is involved. Of Moran, we have every reason to suspect. But _she_ might have been content to sit back and watch the pieces fall. I should have guessed she would have Moran on a shorter leash.'

John's head cricked to the side at the word, but straightened again. 'Why do you say that?' he asked. 'She may not have had her hand in all of it. The murders, I mean. Aside from a bit of a scare, Molly's been left unharmed. Seems like a bit of a deviation from the pattern.'

'Yes, but for an essential element: that which connects it to all the other crimes.'

'What's that?'

'The note.'

John shook his head. 'This is the first time there's been a note.'

'Not at all, though perhaps my choice of word is misleading. What I mean is, the _message_. All the messages have been, at their core, identical.'

'What messages?'

'Do keep up, John. You were there when we received the first.'

John stared at him, baffled. Then, 'You mean, with the shoe in the tree? The text you received to your mobile?'

'Yes. What did it say?'

'It was a line from a rhyme. A nursery rhyme.'

'And the line?'

'_The cradle will fall_. From Rock-a-Bye. But what did that—?'

'The second was more subtle. When we found O'Harris, we discovered his pockets had been stuffed with hemlock and rose petals.'

'You never did explain that.'

'I was still gathering data, piecing it all together. But it's clearer to me now. Do you know what a small bunch of cut flowers is called, John?'

'Um . . .'

'A posy. I'll leave you to the join _those _dots.'

John's eyebrows knit together before they rose in surprise. 'Ring a ring o' roses,' he said. 'A pocket full of posies.'

'Indeed. And how does it end?'

'Atishoo, atishoo, we all fall down.'

'Very good, you remember your nursery rhymes.'

'Not much of a feat, that,' said John, thinking Sherlock was taking the piss. 'They _are_ rather ingrained in us as children, aren't they?'

But then he saw Sherlock's slight frown. '_I_ didn't have them memorised. I had to research them.'

'What? Why?'

'In _my_ nursery, John, the au pair was not permitted to read to me children's tales or teach me children's songs. Father said simple stories nurtured simple minds, and he would have none of that. My earliest bedtime stories were _Crime and Punishment_ and Machiavelli's _The Prince._'

'Damn,' said John, lips fighting to keep in a straight line. 'But surely you heard standard _nursery rhymes_. On the telly, or at school.'

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as if to say, _Telly? In _my _house?_ if not, _I went to _public school_, John._ 'I'm not entirely unfamiliar with them.' His tone was scathing, but John knew him well enough to detect a note of embarrassment. 'One hears them often enough in parks and cafes, mothers speaking to their children . . . Look, that's all beside the point. The point is the message: _The cradle will fall_ from the lullaby._ We all fall down_ from the Ring a Ring o' Roses.'

'_London Bridge is falling down_.'

'Now you're seeing it.'

'And this latest? The bodies found in a skip?'

'There was a note left,' said Sherlock, a little evasively; he had told John very little about this one, 'though not a nursery rhyme. Like with the second murder, the message here was more subtle. The victims: Ralston Winters and Lynette Avery. On the street, they were commonly known as Jack and Jill.'

'I see.'

'You remember _their_ fate, of course.'

'Jack fell down and broke his crown.'

'And Jill came tumbling after, yes. Molly places Winters' death about twenty-four hours prior to Avery's, so we know he "fell" first, as per the rhyme. His skull had been bashed in—the crown of his head split like a melon. But few curiosities with these murders. In the first place, these two victims broaden the victim profiles considerably. Jefferies, O'Harris, and Nichols were all homeless white men within nine years of age of one another. This suggested that the Slash Man had a _type_, and most officers down at the Yard believed that type to be, well, based on you. Forgive me, I believed it myself. Body type, hair colour, approximate age, and race—they were not far dissimilar to you, John.'

'I noticed it, too,' John said softly.

'But Winters and Avery don't fit that pattern. Winters and Avery were both black, and, obviously, Avery was a woman. She alone would have broadened the profile, but the two together in a double murder? A clear deviation. The reasons are unclear, but their deaths may have been in the sole interest of conforming more closely to the rhyme, which only intensifies the _significance_ of the rhymes. Second, as far as I have been able to ascertain, they were known as Jack and Jill _only_ to other homeless men and women, which makes sense, as they were the ones to dub them as such. This suggests to me not only that the culprit is indeed a member of that community but furthermore that _every step_ of this has been planned. What is the likelihood of finding a homeless man and woman going by such monikers that merely _happen_ to fit into an empty slot in the template? No, _every_ victim has already been carefully, craftily selected. Five so far, but how many more? _That_ I do not know. There are hundreds of nursery rhymes.'

'But not all of them have to do with falling,' said John.

'In that you are right. _That_ number is more limited. But that does not dispel their penchant for creativity. Look at Molly.'

'Polly put the kettle on, we'll all have tea,' John recited. 'You're right. Nothing about falling in that.' His eyes suddenly lit with understanding. 'Oh. It got her to look in the kettle, though, didn't it? Where she found the bird.'

'Not just a bird. The point is that it was a _wren_. At least, I _think_ there's significance to the species. This winter has been a harsh one, and native wrens, being so small, perish easily in the conditions. Furthermore, they're evasive, hard to spot, let alone catch. So the fact that there was a _wren _in the kettle seems to be a deliberate selection. But I may be drawing lines where there is no intended connection. And given the perps' penchant for stories . . .'

'Go on.'

'There's an old story. Not a fairy tale or nursery rhyme. A fable. German. It's about how the wren came to be called the King of Birds. Do you know it?'

'I can't say I do.'

'In short, it describes how all the birds desired one of their own kind to rule over them. To determine the most worthy, an owl fashioned a test: the bird to fly highest would become king of the birds.'

'And the wren flew the highest?' John asked.

'No, it was the eagle. But the wren, thinking himself clever and suspecting that the eagle would fly higher than all the others, hid himself in the eagle's feathers. And when the eagle flew as high as he could, the wren emerged and flew higher still.'

'So . . . he won?'

'That depends on the storyteller. But in the original version, no. The owl, when he heard what the wren had done, called him a trickster and a fraud. The eagle was named king of the birds, and the wren was reproved and punished to always keep close to the earth, never flying very high at all. Ultimately, the wren was shamed and despised of all other birds.'

'I don't see what this has to do with the bird in Molly's kettle.'

'If I'm right—and I'm not saying that I am—about their reasons for selecting a wren, then it appears that they are taking the bird's punishment even further. Its wings were clipped. Not the feathers, the _wings_. The humerus—_snipped_ on both sides. One of the wings was entirely detached, the other still clung on by only a flimsy bit of skin. And what happens to a bird that can't fly?'

'So it was a symbol.'

Sherlock shot forward in his chair. His hands spread wide like the spokes of a wheel. 'All of it. A prelude of what is to come. This whole series of crimes, every piece of it, is one long charade, a narrative built around one central theme: the fall. My fall.'

John frowned. 'You mean, when you . . . ?'

'Not that one.'

'Sherlock—'

'The one that is still to come.'

'Sherlock, stop.'

John bowed his head into a hand, shielding his eyes from looking at Sherlock. As he let out a shaky breath, Sherlock settled back again into the chair and said, 'I'm sorry. I should let you rest.'

'No. It's nothing. It's just . . .' He exhaled, straightened his back, lifted his head. 'You can't say that's what will happen. You can't. We can stop it. We can still stop it.'

'I'm trying. But I need more answers. I know who the culprit is. I know how the victims died. I even know _why_ they died. What I don't know is—'

'Who's next,' John finished. There was a loud pause in the room. Their eyes were locked; it was as if the room were spinning around them, and the only thing keeping them grounded was this.

'So what do we do?' John asked.

'I don't know. They're at least two steps ahead of us, probably more. This whole thing has been planned, every part,' Sherlock said again. 'So if I could anticipate the next move, I could stop it. I could save whoever is next in line for the gallows. I could stop the Slash Man from ever hurting any more unwilling martyrs caught up in a crusade they know nothing of—avenging Moriarty. I can get one step closer to Moran and Adler.'

'You said there was a note,' said John, 'on Jack and Jill. Not a nursery rhyme. What did it say?'

Sherlock's templed fingers returned to his chin, and his head bowed as though in prayer, except that his eyes never closed, hardly blinked. He seemed to be debating whether to answer. 'It was a riddle. I hate those.'

'What did it say?' John asked again.

'On Jack: _Ever drifting down the stream_,' he recounted. 'And on Jill: _Life, what is it but a dream?_'

'That sounds like Row, Row, Row Your Boat,' said John. 'Sort of. But that doesn't have to do with falling, either. And it didn't lead you to a symbol of falling, like with the kettle. So what does it mean?'

He let his hands fall again and said with an air of nonchalance, 'I don't know. The thing is, it's not _quite _Row Your Boat, is it? That's why it's a riddle. It has to be. It doesn't fit the mould of any of the other messages. So if any piece of this is an outlier, it's that.'

'Then I guess it's the key.'

'That's the key.'

* * *

After initial contact, Lestrade never heard anything from Mycroft Holmes until after he'd completed his mission, and if he tried to call back, he encountered a wall of silence. There was no question who was in control in this oddly functional if not disgruntled relationship.

He never knew and seldom saw the other players. He was one cog in Mycroft's large and complex pocket watch, in which none of the pieces knew what the others were doing or how many of them there were, but they all kept working just the same, turning, ticking, and grinding, at the winding of the master clockmaker. He knew who that reminded him of—he knew exactly who—and it did not rest well with him.

But he knew his part well enough. He knew, for instance, to leave his phone at home, lest someone try to trace, call, or identify him. He knew to check the hubcap back tyre of the vehicle that rolled to a stop to pick him up, as that was where he would find the subtle identifying marker ensuring the trustworthiness of the town car. And he knew that, once inside, it was pointless trying to talk to the driver. Instead, he was to locate the envelope in the six-digit password-protected attaché case beneath the seat, read any further instructions, retrieve and affix the earpiece, and wait patiently for his drop-off. Only then would a digitally masked voice come to life within his ear and begin to give him step-by-step instructions, which he knew to follow to the letter. There was no sense in talking back, asking questions, debating actions. It was a one-way communication device. Lestrade was on his own, every time, and he knew it.

Whatever the voice in his ear said to do, he did, and less so because he trusted Mycroft or believed in their cause, but more so because he was afraid of what might happen if he _didn't_. If the voice said to walk straight, he did. Turn left, he did. Stop in the shadows, he did. Though he was frustrated by it all outside of the scope of the mission, inside the confines of his spywork, he was content to be a puppet. He was rarely, if ever, responsible for making any split-second matter-of-life-and-death decisions of his own, and he rather preferred it that way, if he was to be walking in the dark.

And that was how he found himself, at one o'clock in the morning, wearing the name tag for Charles Eddington, an MI5 man who would inexplicably be made redundant in two days' time, and standing in a concrete stairwell, poised by a door that would take him to the counter-terrorist division of Home Office, half a mile's walk from New Scotland Yard. His heart was drumming. If things didn't go to plan, he thought fleetingly, he doubted whether he would ever see the Yard again.

'When I tell you to,' the distorted voice in his ear said after four full minutes of radio silence and Lestrade standing there feeling like an idiot waiting to be found out at any moment, 'you'll open the door and take your first left. At the end of the hall, before the next corner, stop.'

He nodded, repeating the instructions to himself. He licked his lips and wiped his palms on the front of his trousers.

'Now.'

Trusting there was no one on the other side, Lestrade swiped Mr Eddington's card into the reader to unlock the door and pulled it open, revealing an empty hallway branching in three directions. He hung a quick left and made it to the end of hallway. Then, per his instructions, he stopped, and waited to be directed further.

So it went. Down halls, around corners, through mazes of deserted cubicles, and in and out of doors locked by key cards and codes, Lestrade made his way closer and closer to what he understood was the 'vault' Mycroft had mentioned. He wondered whether he was being watched by the almighty watchman in the sky—through a camera, that was; or, for all he knew, his earpiece also served as a tracker; or maybe they were using heat sensor detection and could pinpoint his location that way; or maybe he had seen too many spy-tech films—or by one of the other cogs in the machine, someone who knew his movements and could therefore direct him when it was safe to go, exigent to stop, and so forth. He felt a little like a character in a video game, his every action the result of some kid with his thumb on the joy stick.

Until he was forced to act on his own.

He had just used the key card to enter another division of offices; the door locked behind him, and he knew that once a door had been unlocked once, he could not reused his card there for at least fifteen minutes. He didn't understand it, but he had been led to believe that it had something to do with circumventing the security alerts. So there he was, moving forward, slinking down a short hallway past an out-of-service water fountain and the men's loo, when he heard voices.

'. . . before we send them down to Albright in immigration.'

'I'll have it drawn up first thing in the morning.'

Lestrade halted and his heart stopped. He waited for instructions in his ear.

'You're heading straight into a snare. Retreat.'

He whirled around, but there was no place to retreat to! He couldn't go back through the door he had just used—it might as well have been a dead end.

'Hide in the bathroom. _Go_.'

'Hang on, MacDowell, I'm just going to pop into the loo. Be right with you.'

_Where the hell was the women's loo!_, he though desperately, casting around for another place to hide. For half a second, he felt paralysed. Any second now, that man would round the corner and find him standing half crouched and splay-legged, as though preparing either to sprint or shit himself. Then a memory jolted him. He sprang two steps back, snatched the _out-of-service_ sign from off the water fountain, and slapped it soundlessly on the door of the men's loo even as he disappeared inside of it and eased it closed behind him.

_'You'd be surprised how no one ever questions these,' Molly had said, pointing to a handwritten sign reading Do Not Enter, which Sherlock had made himself. 'I suppose that's true.'_

On the other side of the door, he held his breath, eyes round with fear, and waited.

'Well, damn,' said the male voice, and the sound of feet came to a stop. 'Why does nothing ever get fixed around here?'

And to Lestrade's amazement, the steps departed.

He caught himself in an audible moan of relief and clamped a hand across his mouth.

'Hold your position,' said the voice in his ear, unperturbed, seeming to know nothing about how he had almost been caught and blown the whole operation. 'When I give the word, leave the bathroom and continue down the hallway. Take your first right. Pass two junctions and take a left. You'll see an unmarked door with black glass and a key pad. Swipe your card, then punch in the code 6-6-9-8-3-0 and enter the room. On my mark, you will have seventy-five seconds once you leave the bathroom to enter the code and close the door behind you.'

He nodded, sweat dampening his face. He didn't understand all the mechanics and ins-and-outs of it, but someone somewhere was changing the key codes to these room; to remain undetected, those codes expired in usually under two minutes. Hand on the door awaiting his signal, he wiped his opposite sleeve across his brow.

'Go. Commencing radio silence.'

Lestrade pulled the door open, trusting to see an empty hallway, which he did, and followed his orders, all the while counting—somewhat unreliably in his head, he thought—_one sugarplum, two sugarplum, three . . . _The hallways stretched longer than he had hoped, and he had to pick up his pace, because by the time he came in sight of the door with black glass, he had counted sixty-three sugarplums. He sped forward, and his silent monologue switched from marking seconds to repeating the code. He swiped his card and punched the numbers with the knuckle of his right forefinger:

6-6-9-8-3-0

With a small click, the red light turned green, and he entered the dark room. The door closed behind him.

And he waited.

A full minute passed, but the voice hadn't returned.

Warily, he stepped further into the lightless room. He could barely make out the shadows of long rows of desks from the small lights blinking on sleeping computer monitors. It was a tech room of some kind, both long and deep. As he slowly walked past the rows and his eyes adjusted to the dark, he figured that there must have been sixty, seventy computer stations in that room. And at the back was another door.

Again, he awaited instruction. Another two minutes went by, and nothing.

Lestrade ran a hand across his face, thinking. He reviewed his instructions carefully, wondering if he had missed something, but he was positive that he had not been told what to do once he was in the room. Should he try to get into the next room? Try to go back? But the key codes would have changed by now! He hated just standing there, waiting for the sky to fall. Unable to keep still, he turned and headed back toward the first door.

That's when he noticed one of the computer screens was awake, something he had not been able to see when he had first entered. The background was black, but a little cursor blinked in the upper left-hand corner. And a single letter in pale, digital green: L

Swallowing with a dry throat, Lestrade put forth a hand, hesitated, then tapped the _L _on the keyboard.

A command appeared:

_Enter alphanumeric code._

And a countdown appeared beneath it: 10 . . . 9 . . . 8 . . .

He stared. Code. _What code!_ The code he had entered to get into the room to begin with were just numbers. What was he supposed to enter? He wiggled the earpiece set deep inside his ear, wondering fearfully if it had stopped working.

7 . . . 6 . . . 5 . . .

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

4 . . . 3 . . .

In desperation, he quickly typed in the only alphanumeric code he could remember: MZ1065QR—no! RQ! And he hit enter.

There was a loud hum and click behind him. He whirled and saw that the door in the back of the room now had a green light. It had been unlocked. Before he went for the door, however, he took one last glance at the screen:

_You have four minutes before the room seals. Retrieve the box and get out._

He cursed under his breath and spun about once again, hurrying to the back door.

What he found on the other side could only have been described as a library. There were rows and rows of tall filing cabinets, and rows and rows of shelving holding not books but narrow boxes, all uniform in a non-descript grey-brown, in shape, and in size, with little indexed labels on. He stared. Then he cursed Mycroft seven ways till Sunday for not giving him more information about the layout of this room—was this, _this_, the vault?—as the voice remained infuriatingly silent.

But there was nothing for it. As the seconds ticked by, he ran to the first cabinet and found it locked; so he abandoned it and darted to the first row of shelves, feeling like the least suave, least competent James Bond imaginable. He pulled the first box off the shelf to check its number: AA-029.1 FD

He jumped to the next row and found that the two leading letters began DB. Thank god, it was alphabetical. He jumped again to the next row (the Fs) and to the next (beginning with Is) and so forth until he found the first M and hurried down the row, eyes grazing the spines of the boxes, his heart in his throat and his breath caught somewhere below that.

More than half his time was expired (he knew it) by the time he found his first MZ, and another thirty seconds gone before he located the 100s on a shelf higher than his head. By the time he spotted it—MZ-106.5 RQ—he had no more than twenty seconds left. He grabbed it off the shelf, double checked the index label, and laughed in half-relief, half-exasperation. It was wider than a shoebox, but just about as long and deep, and not so heavy. Its contents, however, did not shift easily, suggesting the box was full. Of what, he had no way of knowing. It was made of thin, plated steel and locked on three sides, the fourth being hinged, the bottom to the top. He didn't know how he was meant to destroy its contents, but that, at the moment, was the least of his concerns.

Clutching the box in sweat-slippery fingers, he rushed from the room. And then, not knowing if the room to be sealed was the library or the tech room, he gambled—acted on a hunch—and walked out of the front door, which was fortuitously unlocked for him, and back into the bright hallway.

The moment the door locked behind him, the voice returned.

'Do not attempt to open the box. It is imperative that you leave the building. Follow my instructions.'

Though still distorted, the voice was decidedly different to the one guiding him before. It didn't matter. He would follow it just the same.

* * *

Something startled Molly from her shallow sleep. Adrenalin and fear coursed through her body, fuelling her to sit bolt upright with the duvet tucked tight around her chest and up to her chin. She swung her head to the window, the wardrobe, then to the door, looking for anything amiss, waiting for the shadows to move.

In a drawer of the bedside table, John had left her the pistol. Before taping it on the underside of the table top, he had shown her that the safety was on and reminded her that it was fully loaded. She had been uncomfortable with its presence, but now she was of half a mind to grab it as her imagination supplied her with all manner of spooks and villains. But then she heard the sound again. It came from beyond her bedroom door, from the front room, where she was unaccustomed to hearing midnight noises. She swung her feet over the side of the bed and crept toward the door, ear cocked. A rumble, like thunder, disguised as a voice; and another, a songbird in panic.

She hurriedly slipped into her oversized terry dressing gown and eased open the bedroom door. Her bare feet were soundless against the cold floor as she toed her way down the darkened hallway toward the dim glow emanating from a single lamp in the sitting room. The overstuffed armchair came into her view first, but it was unoccupied, save for her open laptop, which had been left on the ottoman. Just before she reached the corner of the wall, she heard it again, and this time knew what it was—a dry sob joined with the words, pitched high and distressed, _no no no_, followed immediately by a softer though sturdier voice, speaking words so low she couldn't make them out.

Something was wrong; she could feel it like electricity in the midnight air, gathering to strike. But she hesitated in rounding the corner, debating within herself whether she should return to her room and give them privacy, or look to see what was happening. Finally, her heart compelled her, and, keeping to the shadows, she peered into the room.

In an instant, she took in the scene. John, blankets slung about his waist and drooping onto the floor, was sitting upright on the edge of the sofa, perched like he might fall off at any moment if touched by the wrong sweep of air. His head hung low and his shoulders were hunched, and he rocked where he sat, left and right, always on the verge of rising to his feet. But Sherlock, who was crouched down in front of him with his back to Molly, wouldn't let him. If he went right, Sherlock touched his right arm; if he went left, Sherlock touched his left. They were gentle touches but had the effect on John as though he were without gravity—one tap, and he floated in the opposite direction. Sherlock kept him from floating very far.

'Where is she?' John was saying, his voice tense in panic. Hands fisted the blankets tangled in his lap. 'Where have you taken her?'

'Shh, shh, just lie back down,' said Sherlock calmly. Molly couldn't see his face—she could see only John's—but his voice was like a mother's lullaby: at once tender and consoling, unwavering and strong. She'd never heard him speak like that before.

John's hard breaths stuttered and strained to escape. 'I— I heard—'

'You're sleeping, John. This is a dream. You're still asleep.'

And he was right. Molly had never seen it before, but at Sherlock's words she recognised the glassy eyes, the lack of light and focus. In their place was darkness and fear. Tears slid unnoticed down John's face, across his lips, which were spread and quivering as he tried to speak but couldn't find the words. In this state of unconsciousness and unreality, he was unmasked, revealing an emotional state too raw, too real, to be borne, she felt her eyes begin to burn.

'Sleep,' Sherlock repeated.

John shook his head in anger and he punched both fists into the cushions on either side of him. Molly jumped at the sudden transformation. His arms shook, making his whole body tremble as though he were being shocked. 'I hear her. I can hear her!'

'There's no one else here,' said Sherlock, unfazed by this abruptness. 'It's just you and me. You're okay, John. You're safe—'

'She's crying,' he said as tears stained his own cheeks. 'Oh God! They're hurting her!'

Sherlock repositioned so that his knees touched the floor and steadied him. His voice was a bit more insistent now. 'John. John, can you hear me? It's Sherlock. I need you to wake up.'

But John was crying in earnest. 'I can't find her! Mary, oh Mary! Ah—!' His head snapped to the side as though he'd been struck.

Molly covered her mouth with both hands, her own tears flowing freely now. Oh God, she'd never seen anything like this. She felt paralysed, unable to either turn away or move forward to help—not that she would have any idea what to do, other than grab him, shake him, scream at him to wake up and escape wherever he believed himself to be.

Another unseen hand struck him and his head wrenched around on his neck as he cried out in pain.

But Sherlock did _not _shake him, or shout at him. He only kept speaking to him, low and steady, saying his name, and barely touching him at all; only when John's hands began to draw together did Sherlock reach forward to guide them apart—serenely, gently, like handling a delicate instrument made of glass.

And so it went. For uncounted minutes, John, imprisoned within the torture chamber of his own mind, relived the horrors of that kitchen. He called out for Mary, jerked away from invisible blows, and wept. Sherlock, his voice never failing, called him back from the brink time and again; but when it seemed that he was calming, quieting, and that he just might be returning to a more restful sleep, the ugly memories flared again to life, and the terror started playing itself out again.

'They've taken her, they've taken her and they cut off her hair and they're frightening her, they're _frightening_ her, and I can't stop them, he won't let me, he won't let me move, won't let me see her, and she doesn't know anything, she doesn't!'

'Breathe, John. Please. You're hyperventilating. I need you to breathe.'

'Please, she doesn't know him! She never knew him! He's dead! He's dead!'

She thought she heard Sherlock choke back a sound and his head dipped a little, and when it did, when his hand fell on John's knee, John's whole leg spasmed, jolting his whole body like an electrical shock. His back arched and his head flung back. Sherlock jerked his hand away and was poised to retreat entirely. But as John came back down, he reached forward and gripped Sherlock at the shoulder as though for balance, to keep himself from tipping off the sofa. He kneaded Sherlock's shoulder for a short while, taking his time to regain his breath. Then his hand moved up and wrapped around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer. Sherlock looked up, and their eyes met, and for the first time Molly doubted whether John really was asleep: he looked straight into Sherlock's face like he was really seeing him. His fingernails were sunken into the skin of the back of Sherlock's neck, latched fiercely, but Sherlock had stilled like a statue.

When John next spoke, he was so quiet that Molly might have missed his words if she had not been watching his lips.

'You can't be here,' he said, leaning in even closer, like he was sharing a secret. 'They put you in the earth, and after, no one came back to bring you flowers. Not even me.'

It was too much. Molly couldn't stand to watch another second, but nor could she abandon him and return to her room. So she placed her back to wall and slipped down to the floor, and listened. To keep silent, she left her hands clamped across her mouth but let the tears fall. She had had no idea that this was what things were like for John and Sherlock now, but though she was struck with sorrow at John's suffering, she was left in awe at Sherlock's care of him. She had caught glimpses of it before, perhaps, or at least suspected that he was capable of such feeling, but she had never witnessed it in action; and that, as much as anything else, was what glued her to that hallway wall.

The clock ticked in the kitchen as the hour passed with her on the floor, Sherlock on his knees, and John in a prison miles away from them both. The cycle kept repeating. Until finally, Sherlock broke it.

'Please, oh god please no. Please no, I'll do anything,' John was saying again. His words were almost unintelligible, mangled in tears and panting.

'_John, stop_,' said Sherlock. His voice was unexpectedly forceful, and Molly recoiled. Then, just as quickly, it softened again. 'Tell me about her.'

For the first time since finding him in this state, Molly heard silence from the sitting room. She rolled her head slowly along the wall to see beyond the corner. Staring into nothing, John was unmoving, but for one hand, which trembled relentlessly. Carefully, Sherlock covered that hand with his own. Two, three seconds of stillness followed. Then John's other hand locked atop Sherlock's. Sherlock rested his free hand on John's knee. This time, John made no move to pull away.

Sherlock continued, even more tenderly than before. 'Tell me about Mary, John. Please. What was she like?'

Tick. Tick. And no response, only a loud, nasal breathing punctuating the quiet. Sherlock prompted one more time, softly, one string on the cello. 'What was she like, John? Your Mary?'

'She loved me,' John said in wonder.

His voice was changed—the pitch had dropped, slowed. He sounded utterly spent.

'Yes, she did,' answered Sherlock. 'Very much. What else?'

'She told me so. Right before he . . . before he . . .'

'No, John, tell me about the day you met. You and Mary. Do you remember?'

'Yes.' A pause, drawn out like a musical rest. 'She was looking for Sherlock. She needed a detective and found me instead.' Another pause. Then, what sounded like a small laugh, if Molly believed John were capable of such anymore. 'She faked chest pains to get an appointment at St E's. When I first saw her . . .' His voice drifted away, remembering quietly, until Sherlock urged him to continue aloud. 'She wore a paper gown, no makeup, and her long, ginger hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.'

His voice was slipping away, and though he continued to talk and Sherlock continued to ask questions, both men spoke so softly that she couldn't make out what was said after that. As for herself, she continued to sit on the cold floor, straining to hear, fearing that any movement of hers, any sound louder than blinking, and the spell might break.

Then suddenly, Sherlock's tall shadow stood over her.

Startled, she gasped into her hands. Then she hastily wiped at the wetness on her cheeks, feeling ashamed to have been discovered. But he said nothing, only extended a hand. She was embarrassed to offer him her tear-stained fingers, but he made no sign of displeasure, only gripped her hand and pulled her off the floor.

'I'm so sorry!' she whispered. 'I know I shouldn't have—'

He hushed her and stepped aside to show her that John lay sleeping once again, curled on his side on her sofa, his head tucked halfway beneath a blanket. Then he turned her about and walked her back to her bedroom. She felt like a little girl being caught awake past curfew, being put to bed by a stern parent, never mind that this was her flat and Sherlock was a guest in it. But when he entered the room and sat with her on the edge of the mattress, she realised that she had been mistaken in her evaluation—his mood wasn't one of displeasure. He seemed too tired to show displeasure.

'He has good nights,' he told her, his voice rolling like far-away thunder, 'and bad. They aren't predictable.' They sat in the dark, the only light coming from far down the hall where John slept. Sherlock was just a shadow, expressionless, ghost-like.

'You should have gone home,' said Molly, matching his low volume. 'If he were in his own bed—'

'He doesn't sleep in his own bed. He sleeps on the sofa, every night.'

'He does? Why?'

'I don't know, precisely. He can't abide total darkness, and his room gets very dark at night. There are solutions to that, but he won't talk about them. I don't know why he prefers the sitting room.'

They lapsed into silence. Molly tried to think of something to say, something wise or optimistic or comforting, but she could come up with nothing that could make right what she had just seen. She knew only that she didn't want to make things worse. 'In the morning,' she said, 'what should I do?'

'Nothing. He won't remember.'

'What? Nothing?'

'If anything, he may remember a bad dream. But he won't want to talk about it. He won't know what he did, what he said. He never does. He doesn't remember when he walks around the flat or moves things about or tries to hurt himself. I tried to tell him, once, that he had spoken Moran's name in his sleep, and he got angry and left the room. So I can't tell him about the other things. I don't know what else to do. But it would upset him, Molly, if he knew you had seen him in that state.'

She nodded her understanding, but realising that he couldn't see her in that dark, she said, 'I won't say a word.'

'Thank you.'

He stood and moved toward the exit. 'He's resting now, but I don't know if he'll make it until morning. If you hear something . . . Just try to sleep. I'll watch over him.'

He put a hand on the door to pull it closed. Before he could close it, she said, 'Sherlock?"

The door swung only halfway closed, and paused.

She couldn't quite put into words all she was feeling, and her tongue fumbled in her mouth. At last, she said simply, 'You're a good friend to him. I think it's good that he's with you.'

His dark outline didn't move. For a few seconds, she thought he might say something in return, either to disabuse her of the notion or acknowledge that she was right. But whatever he was thinking, he kept locked up inside. Softly, he closed the door.


	17. Anderson Triumphant

**CHAPTER 17: ANDERSON TRIUMPHANT**

**SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 14, 2015**

She awoke to a dark London sky. The sun was rising gradually earlier as the winter slowly, recalcitrantly, wore itself out, but she still needed to be to Bart's by eight, and, what with the questionable morning commute, she would want to leave the flat no later than a quarter past seven, just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. She reached for her phone: 06.05, and no missed calls, no unread texts.

She clipped on the bedside lamp and pulled back the covers, rather amazed she had slept at all. After Sherlock had left her bedroom, she remembered lying back while listening for any more sounds coming from the sitting room and trying not to cry. At some point, despite herself, she must have slipped off into a dreamless sleep. If she didn't know better, she would have believed this was a morning like any other: she would rise, shower, feed the cat, feed herself, and be off. But she did know better. This was no ordinary morning: there were two extraordinary men in her sitting room, a dead bird in her refrigerator, and no cat at all.

For a few seconds, wondering whether she had the strength even to face the day, she considered calling in sick, but there was no sense in it. She would drive herself mad cooped up in this place, and she couldn't likely intrude any longer on Sherlock and John. She was in perfect health, she knew, so she might as well make herself useful. She shivered into her slippers and dressing gown and eased open the door. The hallway was darkened, as was the sitting room; at some point in the night, Sherlock must have turned off the lamp. Stepping lightly, she drew closer, expecting Sherlock to be settled in her armchair. Instead, she saw the once-again empty seat and the now-closed laptop, this time set on the coffee table. Two more soundless steps, and the sofa came into view.

The streetlamps pressed enough light through the windows for her see them clearly: John slept peacefully, stretched out on his back. One leg was bent and propped against the back cushions, and one hand rested on his stomach. His head had slipped off the pillow and now lay near the edge of the sofa, his face turned out toward the room. And seated on the floor, his back propped against the sofa at John's head, Sherlock slept, too. In imitation of John, one leg was bent, the other stretched out, and his interlocked fingers lay across his stomach. His head had drooped back against the armrest of the sofa, barely supported. His and John's heads were close together, nearly touching.

He might have chosen the armchair. Though not an ideal bed, it certainly would have been more comfortable than the floor. And he hadn't even touched the spare blankets she had set out. She was no Sherlock, but something about the scene suggested to her that he had intended to keep vigil all night, like a parent watching over an ailing child, or a dog guarding his master. But sleep—exhaustion, more like—had overcome him. And rather than leave John's side, if only to cross the room and seek out greater comfort, he had opted for the security that came from physical proximity. And maybe, Molly thought, that was why John always slept in the sitting room.

Not wanting to disturb even a few minutes' worth of precious sleep, she slipped back toward the kitchen and switched on the single, low light above the cooker, trusting it wouldn't disturb them. Trying to make as little noise as possible, she filled the coffee pot with water from the tap and set the machine to percolate. Meanwhile, as the rich smell of roast coffee swirled into the air, she pulled down three mugs (assiduously checking each for signs of lipstick) and the sugar bowl. The creamer was in the fridge, which meant she wouldn't bother with it this morning, despite her preference.

When the coffee was ready, she began to spoon out the sugar: two for the first mug, two for the second, and she was just turning the spoon over into the third when a long hand reached forward and covered it from rim to rim. Sugar crystals spilled and scattered. She jumped and turned.

'John takes his black,' Sherlock said with a grin. He spoke just above a whisper, and his early-morning voice was low and rough. He picked up the mug beside John's, blew over the surface, and took a sip. He made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat.

'I didn't hear you,' she said, matching his voice for volume.

'Obviously.'

She blushed and tried to recover herself. 'Biscuits? Toast?' She moved toward the cupboard.

'Thank you, no. Any word from Lestrade?'

She shook her head, trying to hide her disappointment behind a devil-may-care mask of unconcern. 'His phone keeps going to voicemail.'

'Ah.'

'Is John awake?'

'Not yet.'

But he lifted John's mug anyway and returned to the sitting room. He set the coffee on the side table nearest John's head, then settled himself again in the armchair and pulled Molly's laptop close, perfectly at home. Perhaps he meant to give John the impression that he had spent the whole night in that very spot, and not on the floor. She wondered whether John would even question it.

She finished her own coffee in the kitchen and tidied up a bit. Then she poked her head around the corner. 'I'm just going to pop into the shower,' she said quietly.

'Don't touch the mirror,' said Sherlock by way of response, though he didn't bother to glance up. He took another sip from his mug. Whatever he was reading on her laptop had his full attention. John didn't stir.

* * *

Lestrade was huffing by the time he rounded the corner and came within sight of Molly's front door. The sky was greying with light, and the sun would be breaking over the horizon soon, so he hoped she hadn't left for work yet. He wanted to surprise her. It was Valentine's Day, after all, and for the first time in more years than he could bother remembering (including those during the latter years of his failing marriage), he had someone to share it with.

He carried a bouquet of roses wrapped in green cellophane—picked up from floral department at the closest Tesco just twenty minutes before—and had bothered with a red tie and some cologne, feeling only a little foolish. It had been a long time since he had wanted to impress a woman, and he didn't want to _overdo_ it. But he wanted the gestures to be clear.

He also wanted the flowers to serve as an apology. When he had finally made it home last night (or rather, early that morning), he had every intention of crashing right there on the sofa. Sod the stairs, the empty bed. He was exhausted. Though he had been led out of the building without incident, there was no car to meet him on the street. Instead, the instruction kept coming: walk here, turn there, stop, wait, go, _hide!_ Until, some twenty minutes later, while crouching in the shadows of a particularly rank skip, clutching the box to his ribs, a car had finally rolled up and taken him home. He had felt a little worse for wear. He still didn't know what was in that top-secret box now hiding in a crawlspace in the larder, but right then, he couldn't be arsed to care. He would deal with it soon. First, he needed what few short hours of sleep were left to him before he was expected at a morning briefing at the Yard. But before he could fall half-conscious onto the sitting room sofa, he had at least turned his phone back on.

Two missed calls, both from Molly. And a voicemail. 'Call me,' she had said, though her tone was indiscernible. Was it disappointment in his unreliableness? Frustration that they'd not spoken in, what was it, three days now? Anger at him for being such a crap boyfriend? He wasn't able to make much of those two words, but he was damn near positive that it presaged a row: the pause before speaking, the brevity of the message, and the late hour she had called were all ominous. He knew he had done wrong by her, and she would let him know it. That was not an unfamiliar scenario, and he groaned to think that he was making the same mistakes all over again as he had with Angela. He was halfway to calling her back when he checked the time: 03.13. Chances were, she was now asleep, and experience (with Angela) told him that she would appreciate being woken up at such an hour even less.

He had promised her that he would answer when she called, _whenever_ she called. He had meant to be her knight in shining armour, prepared to drop anything to reach her side at any moment, and he had failed. Damn that Mycroft Holmes.

So now he needed to make amends.

He approached the front door and was shifting the roses from one hand to the other to ring the bell when he felt something rub against his leg. Looking down, he saw a calico cat.

'Cheshire?'

The cat mewed.

'What are you doing out here?' He hadn't thought Molly ever allowed the cat out of doors. He scooped it up and tucked it in the crook of his arm as he pressed a thumb to the bell. The cat squirmed, but he juggled it with his elbows before catching it by the scruff and shifting it back into his arms. The flowers crumpled only a little.

Two seconds later, he was buzzed in. _That was quick_, he thought. She must have seen him coming through the window that overlooked the street. The lack of greeting through the speaker, though, was yet another sign that he was in for it. If she was anything at all like Angela, she would be hopping mad and ready to let him have it. He didn't expect the flailing against his upper arms and chest (and once his face), not from Molly, but he steeled himself for a tongue lashing as he mentally prepared a long and heartfelt apology.

But when he achieved the landing, he stopped short, and the look of contrition slid from his face entirely.

'Sherlock!'

Sherlock Holmes was leaning against the doorjamb, one hand in his pocket, sipping coffee. 'Morning, Greg,' he said equably, the hint of a smile on his face. Lestrade could feel the blood draining from his own. Then Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him and cocked his head. 'A dozen roses? A tad cliché, isn't it, Lestrade? Don't get me wrong, I'm terribly flattered, but _really_, you shouldn't have.'

'I—'

'The cat, though, may earn you a few points.'

'What the hell are _you_ doing here?'

'You ask me that a lot.'

'You have a habit of showing up in places you're not'—he bit his tongue to stop himself from saying _wanted_—'expected. Well? Why are you _here_ . . . so early?' He thought he was doing a decent job of sounding merely curious, perhaps concerned, but not jealous. No, definitely not that. But he shouldn't have any reason to be! Should he?

'Come now, Lestrade, I thought you were a proper detective. By my flattened hair, yesterday's attire, and shoeless feet'—his tongue clicked the _t_—'you should be able to deduce that I spent the night.' He proffered another close-lipped smile and took another swig of coffee. 'Did you know,' he continued with an air of casual dismissiveness at Lestrade's dropped jaw, 'that Molly doesn't own a single article of black underwear? Pink, yes. What might we make of that?'

Lestrade made a strange noise somewhere in the back of his throat that sent the blood returning to his face.

'He's just ragging you, Greg.'

To his further surprise, John Watson came into view behind Sherlock. He was also in his socks and day clothes, and he looked halfway to amused by the conversation he was overhearing and what must have been a look of alarm on Lestrade's face. Lestrade was struck with both relief (a sentiment he currently did not wish to explore) and increased consternation: with the Baker Street boys both in attendance, something must have happened.

'Let the man in, Sherlock.'

The bastard kept smirking even as he moved aside, but as Lestrade stepped past him, he felt Sherlock's eyes give him one of his specialty once-overs—scanning him head to toe, making him feel like he was being x-rayed—and the insufferable sod even leant in and gave him a sniff.

'My, my, what _have _you been up to?'

'Back up a bit, eh, mate?' He dropped the cat on the sofa. Then his eyes swept the flat for Molly, but all that he could see different was a stack of folded blankets on the end of the sofa. He also heard the water running in the bathroom. 'Molly in the shower, is she?' he asked.

'Your detective skills are spectacular for so early an hour,' said Sherlock. 'What tipped you off?'

Lestrade gritted his teeth and turned to John. 'Did you let him have too much sugar in his coffee again?' he seethed. 'I've warned you how _fussy_ it makes him.'

'Shall I pour you a cup, inspector?' Sherlock returned, unfazed. 'Or perhaps you've already had too much. Clearly, you were up half the night. Not exactly about your copper duties, though, that's plain. Tell me: How's Mycroft?'

John was staring with wide-eyed astonishment.

'Would somebody tell me what the _bloody_ hell is going on?' Lestrade shouted. He knew his face was flushing again, and it was all he could do not to whack the flowers he was holding in Sherlock's face. 'Why are you two even here? Did something happen to Molly?'

'There was a break-in,' John supplied before Sherlock could get another dig in. 'Nothing taken, no one hurt. But it gave Molly a bit of a scare.'

'_What?_ Did you call the police?'

'He wasn't answering his phone,' Sherlock said snidely, sitting in the armchair and crossing a leg over.

'Sherlock,' said John.

'Don't worry yourself, inspector, I saved you all the interesting bits. The brassiere, the claret, the mutilated bird . . .'

At John's sharp look, Sherlock at last backed off and entered what sounded like a rehearsed monologue of facts and timelines and hypotheses. As he spoke, Lestrade felt his anger rising like the mercury in a thermometer. How could Sherlock be so blasé about this? This! Irene Adler! The first hint of the woman, and she's been inside Molly's flat. _Molly's! _They were targeting Molly! They must have known about her, what she had done, the trust Sherlock had placed in her. Damn that Sherlock Holmes. Could he not take a step without dragging those around him into the crossfire? And furthermore, why had there been no missed phone calls from _Sherlock?_ Had the thought of calling him not even entered his sodding computer of a brain? And if it had, why the hell had he dismissed it? Did Sherlock really find him _that _inconsequential? After all, he had brought John—_John!—_who had, of his own volition, stepped back from cases like these.

'I guess that answers everything then, doesn't it?' said Lestrade, curt and hot around the collar as Sherlock concluded with his supposition that Irene Adler had walked through the front door, despite its being bolted. He failed to disguise the bitterness in his voice.

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted, regarding him. 'Not quite. There's still the matter of where you were last night, and why you neglected your phone for _several_ hours.'

'You're the genius,' Lestrade said tightly. '_Deduce it._'

'Oh, I am.'

Lestrade's jaw clenched. 'I may not be the most intelligent man in this room, but at least _my _maladaptive behaviours don't lure homicidal psychopaths to my doorstep, _and _the doorsteps of my friends.'

'Hey,' said John softly but intensely, taking a step forward to place himself between them. He held up a hand, palm flattened, as though to keep Lestrade at bay.

But Lestrade was spared from responding, for the moment anyway, because behind him, he heard a tiny voice say his name—a timid, hopeful query: 'Greg?'

He turned. Molly was standing in the hallway, fresh from the shower and dressed in a mauve polo neck jumper, her shoulder-length hair pulled into a simple French plait on the side of her head. Her hands were clenched together in front of her as she stared at him. She looked so beautiful, and he was so damn sorry.

'God, Molly,' he began. 'Are you—?'

But she didn't let him finish. At a near-run, she crossed the distance between them and threw her arms around his waist. She buried her face in his chest and instantly began to cry.

Lestrade was shocked. Shocked, but not unmoved. He shoved the bouquet of roses into Sherlock's arms so that his own were free to wrap around her, and he put a hand on her head to hold her close. He felt like such a fool. Again. Again! He had been wrong to compare this woman in any way to his ex-wife, to think that Angela's intolerance for his faults, her withholding nature, and her perpetual grudges would translate themselves in Molly Hooper. He was not expecting this instant forgiveness, this ready embrace. Above all, he was not expecting her tears at the sight of him. He could scarcely comprehend them. They were tears neither of anger nor fear. They seemed to be tears of release. She had been longing for him, _him,_ and that was a wondrous thing indeed.

Jesus, he wanted to throttle Mycroft.

'Is she all right?' said Sherlock in a rare tone of bewilderment. 'All signs indicated that she was coping admirably, given the unfavourable circumstances, and—'

'Time to go, Sherlock,' said John, reaching for his cane.

Lestrade didn't raise his head, and Molly didn't move, unless it was to fit herself even closer into the warmth of his body. A few seconds later, the front door closed, but still, neither of them moved an inch.

* * *

'What was all that about then?' John asked.

'Mm?' said Sherlock, pulling his eyes away from the window where he kept himself distracted from monitoring John's plate while occasionally remembering to eat from his own.

'About Mycroft. You said something to Lestrade about Mycroft.'

'Ah. Yes. Well.' He took bite of buttered toast, silently encouraging John to keep working on that bowl of hot porridge. 'I suspect Mycroft had his hand in our dear inspector's absence last night.'

'How so?' John dragged his spoon through the colourless gruel, but he seemed more interested in watching it slide off his spoon than eating it. It had been Sherlock's suggestion that they stop for breakfast before returning to the flat. On the pretence of already having eaten, John had politely turned down Molly's offer to cook something up last night or call for takeaway. Most likely, however, he had not had a bite of anything in more than fourteen hours, and Sherlock wanted to make sure he had something substantial in his stomach before he took his medication, for which he was already twelve hours overdue. And so, the simple invitation: 'Breakfast?' If recent history was any indication, John would decline, and Sherlock would end up scraping something from the fridge together with the hope that John would it eat. So it came as a surprise when, after a moment's pause, John had answered, 'Yes, all right.'

Sherlock downplayed both his delight and relief, but when they stopped at a café, his heart sank a little upon observing the breakfast menu, which consisted of variations on the traditional full English, and therefore was filled with things that—for one reason or another— John would not or could not manage: grilled tomatoes, beans, fried eggs, sausages. John spotted the problem, too, though neither of them spoke it aloud. In the end, they'd both ordered simple plates à la carte (Sherlock: toast, chips, and bacon; John: porridge and an orange; both had tea), but even then, John had taken only a few bites so far and was already showing signs of premature satisfaction. But maybe if they sat there long enough, eating would simply seem like the thing to do.

'I've suspected that my _dear brother_ has been occupying Lestrade's so-called "free" time with odds-and-ends spy work for a while now.'

John looked up from his bowl in surprise. Two seconds later, he scooped some porridge into his mouth. 'Based on what?'

'A hunch.'

'A hunch? You don't work on hunches.' Another bite.

Sherlock shrugged, determined not to show any pleasure in John's diverted eating. 'Lestrade has demonstrated to me that they can sometimes be useful.' He made himself take another bite of toast. 'One of his groundless _hunches_ proved accurate last October, and therefore valuable.'

John sidestepped that. 'You must have _some_ reason for thinking Lestrade's working for Mycroft.'

'Nothing solid. The compendium of information he's given me access to—directly and indirectly, I _know_ he's leaving things on his computer for me to hack—is not the sort of intelligence the Yard concerns itself with. It's more, shall we say, military. Lestrade has no business concerning himself with files like that. I've noticed the way he holds his breath whenever Mycroft is mentioned, how he tries ever so slyly to shift the course of the conversation. I'll give him credit: he's quite good at it. But not good enough to fool me. Last night, his phone went straight to voicemail. Why would a copper ever turn his phone off? He's not an undercover police officer, so his doing so went against protocol; therefore, it couldn't have been a job associated with the Metropolitan Police. Conclusion? He didn't want it to be traced. He was somewhere he should not have been. It _was_ an assignment, one he didn't want me to know about. Why not? He was instructed not to tell me. And who has a long and proud history of not telling me things? Mycroft.'

John was shaking his head, a wry expression on his face. 'You don't know what the word _hunch _means, do you?'

'Lestrade thinks he's clever, hiding this all from me. It makes him feel special, so I've let him get away with it until now. But for Molly's untimely return from her shower, I would have pressed him. But I suppose it can wait.'

'You may want to back off him a bit,' John said, stirring his porridge. 'He's not doing so well these days.'

Sherlock's eyebrows lowered in confusion. 'What do you mean?'

'Well, he's seeing a therapist himself, isn't he? So things can't be good.'

'He is? What for? How do you know?'

'Maybe I'm having a little hunch of my own.'

'No, really—how?'

John sighed. 'You heard him. _Maladaptive behaviour_. That's a shrink's term.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back. 'Of course,' he whispered. 'Obvious.'

'So maybe a little less needling.' But John's lips twitched; the corner of his mouth turned up by degrees. 'You're perfectly awful, you know that? Not a single article of black underwear,' he quoted. 'Jesus, Sherlock. The look on the poor man's face. You do _know_ you're being cruel.'

'I was ragging. This is how blokes rag each other, is it not?'

'When they're twenty, utter wankers, and _not_ standing in the scene of a crime committed against one of the bloke's girlfriends. Where, I might add, the blokes happened to spend the night.'

'_You_ caught on.'

'I know your slanted sense of humour. And I also know that you're really not very good at telling jokes. You might try being a little less deadpanned about it. It's always a bit startling, hearing you josh. Like hearing your granny tell a dirty joke.'

'I never knew my grandmothers.'

'Mrs Hudson, then.' Sherlock smiled at this, and John set down the spoon, not even half the bowl gone, the orange untouched. 'Right then. You finished?'

Sherlock realised he hadn't touched his food for too many seconds in a row, making John think he was done. Before he could lie and say he was still working on it though, John had grabbed his cane and was pushing back from the table.

From Molly's, their flat wasn't far by cab. The conversation over breakfast was ended, but the silence between them now was . . . companionable. Easy. In a way it hadn't been for a long time. Sherlock was amazed, if not a little puzzled. Last night's nightmare had been a bad one, one of the worst, and it had lasted nearly two hours. But John seemed untouched by it, as though it hadn't even happened. Did he even remember it? After he had fallen back into a more restful sleep, John had moved only once—to stretch himself out onto his back, a sleeping position he hadn't observably assumed since his long stay in hospital. These were little changes, little evidences of progress in his wellbeing, almost too slight to merit mention to anyone who didn't watch John as closely and Sherlock did.

The cab rolled to a stop a few doors down from 221 (John had looked curiously at Sherlock when he gave the wrong address, but he didn't question him). They were just arriving at the front door when Mrs Hudson stepped out of it, buttoning her coat.

'Oh, boys! Were you out all night?'

'On a case, Mrs Hudson,' said Sherlock with restrained pleasure.

'Look at you, such a cheeky smile. It's good to see.' She turned to John. 'He's not running you ragged, I hope. You've still got a bit of resting up to do.'

No one but Mrs Hudson could make such unconcealed remarks about his condition, and John took it in stride. 'I rest when I need to,' he said agreeably.

'I'm popping off to do the shopping. I was thinking, tonight, of a hearty cock-a-leekie. How does that sound to melt the chill off the bone?'

'Lovely, Mrs Hudson.'

She bid them farewell, and John and Sherlock entered the flat.

For a few seconds, as they ascended the stairs, Sherlock felt seized by a bout of euphoria. He was a tightly wound ball of energy, and the only thing stopping him from bounding up the steps, taking them two or three at a time, was that John went before him at his slower though suddenly less gruelling pace. He began unwinding his scarf and pulling off his coat.

When they finally stepped through their door, however, Sherlock noticed three things too late: John's blankets had been folded on the sofa and the items on the table tidied; lines in the rug indicated a recent hoovering; and a sharp, sterile scent hung the air—ammonium hydroxide. Mrs Hudson had been cleaning.

He spun and cried out a warning, 'John, wait—!'

But it was too late. John was bolting for the bathroom, knocking past the kitchen chair and banging into walls in his haste to reach the toilet. Seconds later, Sherlock heard the lid slam open and a loud retching pulling deep from a half-full stomach. Dropping his coat, he hurried down the hall, and coming to the bathroom door saw John on his knees, hands splayed on either side of the bowl to brace himself as another fit squeezed his stomach muscles, and he threw up again.

The smell of household ammonia was even more pungent in the enclosed space of the bathroom and on a toilet most likely coated in it. It might have even been in the bowl itself, mixed with the water and half-digested porridge. Sherlock reached over him and flushed the toilet even as John violently retched a third time, spilling stomach acids from an emptying belly. As the blood rushed to his gut, John's limbs were left bloodless; his fingers curled into claws he couldn't unclench, and he began to shiver uncontrollably even as his face flushed with heat.

'We need to get you out of the bathroom,' said Sherlock urgently. But John, sweating and shivering, shook his head dazedly; his muscles clenched again, and he vomited some more.

Ammonia hydroxide. It was the solution Moran had used to soak the rag that had served as John's gag. It had made the simple functions of breathing and swallowing acts of torture as the long exposure and fumes scoured his gums, tongue, and throat. The gag had effectively silenced him when they forced it on him, but even when they didn't, the lingering burn made speech painful, and eventually he had stopped talking altogether.

Now, John's stomach continued to convulse, and he gagged over the bowl, but nothing else was coming up. He was empty, but with every breath he was bombarded anew with the stench of the ammonia, the sharpness of memory, and he vomited dry air. He gasped and his eyes streamed, and he retched again without result, exhausting his overworked body. Sherlock knew he had to get him away from the smell. But the flat was full of it. Mrs Hudson had been too thorough. The only place she knew never to touch was his own bedroom.

He kicked the bathroom door wide, seized John under the armpits, and dragged him bodily from the bathroom. John cried aloud, either in pain or panic, but Sherlock didn't stop until he had dropped John onto his bed, closed fast the door, and thrown open every window to let the cold London air swirl into the room. Then he grabbed an old chemistry magazine from his shelves, sat on the edge of the mattress, and began fanning John's hot face.

John lay panting, eyes squeezed shut and fighting to uncurl his rigid fingers. He was still sweating profusely and began pulling at his coat with weak, uncooperative fingers, anxious to relieve the heat and constriction. Seeing this, Sherlock set aside the magazine and assisted by pulling the coat down his shoulders, off his arms, and letting it drop over the side of the bed. Then he returned to the fan.

A few minutes passed while he churned the air in front of John's face and John breathed, shivering occasionally as the temperature in the room dropped and the cool air circulated in and out of his body. Sherlock heard him begin to mutter to himself, his face pressed into the duvet: 'I know he is not here. I know I am not mad. I know this will pass.'

He repeated these words over and over. It sounded like a rehearsed mantra, and Sherlock could only suppose that it had been Ella, his therapist, who had recommended it.

And maybe it was working. John was coherent enough to think of it, to use it, in a moment of the kind of crisis that had, in the past, triggered intrusive images and flashbacks. And perhaps he was having them now. But if he was—and Sherlock couldn't be sure—he at least knew that the hallucinations weren't real and was making attempts to dispel them and regain mental, if not physical, control. Sherlock only wished it hadn't happened on _this_ morning, when, for the first time, things had been going so well. It felt like an abrupt setback, pulling the rug out from under them at the first sign of a positive turn.

'I know he is not here. I know I am not mad . . .'

John was flexing his fingers now as the blood returned and his breathing steadied. Stale perspiration still beaded along his brow, but Sherlock mopped it up with a tissue, and his skin remained dry.

'I know this will pass.'

'John?'

John opened his eyes, shivered. Without moving a muscle, he lifted his eyes to see Sherlock. 'It's cold,' he said.

Sherlock stood and pulled the duvet up from the other side of the bed to wrap around him. It was less constricting than the coat, anyway.

'Is it passing?' he asked.

John nodded tiredly.

'Just rest. I'm going to air out the flat, bring you some water.'

'God, I hate this,' he said.

'I know. I'm sorry. But it's . . .' He hesitated, then said it: 'It's getting better.'

John sighed, and as Sherlock slipped out the door, he heard him say drolly, 'At least now I have an excuse never to clean the toilet again.'

* * *

They hadn't been home an hour when Lestrade phoned Sherlock.

'You're needed back here. You and John both.'

'What's wrong?'

He heard Molly's voice in the background. 'Tell him we're fine!'

'Nothing's wrong,' said Lestrade, 'so to speak, but—'

'Tell him to move his arse.'

Sherlock frowned at the less familiar voice. 'Who's that?'

'Dimmock.'

'DI Dimmock?'

'Yes.'

'You called it in, did you?'

'Of _course_ I called it in, which is what _you_ should have done last night!' There was a huff of air on the other end of the phone, and when Lestrade spoke again he was suddenly much calmer. 'Look, it's not my case. I'm homicide, after all, and there's no . . . _overt_ _connection_ between the Slash Man murders and this break-in. Yet.' The full extent of Irene Adler's involvement was unknown to the Metropolitan Police. The official record still listed her as dead, and Sherlock's word on the matter had been dismissed as an 'unsubstantiated claim', being that he was the only person to have seen her alive in more than three years. 'In any case, I'm too intimately connected with the victim in this one, so it's fallen to Dimmock.'

'So what do you need me for?'

'Tell him I don't appreciate him tampering with my crime scene!' Dimmock hollered from the background. 'I'll thump him one, I swear to the Lord God Almighty.'

Lestrade spoke more loudly to override him. 'Forensics will be here soon, but you spent the night in the flat and handled the evidence. He wants to question you. And John.'

'Can't it wait? We're . . . unwinding.'

John came limping in from the kitchen, an arm around his middle and a little wan, but upright and moving. 'Are we needed?' he asked.

'If it were up to me, I'd give you all the time in the world . . .'

'It's _not_ up to you.' Dimmock again, louder this time, as though he were speaking right into the receiver. 'You're lucky I'm not sending officers to bring you here in handcuffs, Holmes.'

'Oi! Back off!' Lestrade growled. Then, mildly, as if nothing had happened, 'How soon can you be here?'

'This really isn't the best time, Lestrade,' said Sherlock

'No, it's fine,' said John. 'It'd probably be good to get out, actually.'

'Dimmock's not kidding about the cuffs, Sherlock,' said Lestrade. 'Let's not do that again.'

Sherlock paused, debating. But John gave him a sharp nod. 'On our way,' he said.

* * *

In the end, Sherlock wished he had resisted more strenuously.

They arrived to find an overly agitated DI Dimmock in a heated conversation with Lestrade, though both fell silent once Sherlock and John stepped into the room. Molly—who evidently would not be going to work that morning after all—stood by the window where she had anxiously been watching the street for their arrival. Another officer, a burly sergeant by the name of Gannon, hid his own discomfort with the pretence of examining Molly's inharmonious collection of anatomical texts and Victorian romance novels, stacked haphazardly in her bookcase. Its lack of organisation made Sherlock itch.

The first thing Dimmock did was send Lestrade away, as he was 'compromising the integrity of the investigation'.

'Take your girlfriend out for a morning latte,' he said somewhat snidely, meaning no offense to Molly but plenty to Lestrade.

'I'd rather stay, if it's all the same to you,' said Lestrade.

'It's _not_, in fact. I can't do my job with you hovering about, giving Holmes daddy's coattails to hide behind.'

Lestrade's eyes flashed in anger, and his jaw dropped with a ready retort, but Sherlock stepped on his first word. 'It's fine, Lestrade. Let the detective inspector feel like a big boy for a change.' Dimmock sneered.

So, reluctantly, they went. Once Dimmock had them alone, he and Sherlock stood facing each other for a moment in silence, one sizing up the other. Sherlock had the advantage of height and a naturally intimidating bearing, but Dimmock had arrogance on his side. He was a little man who had struggled all his life to be taken seriously, and he had developed a rather sore attitude about being proven wrong. Four years ago, he might have been inclined to trust, even admire, a man like Sherlock Holmes, a hobby detective who was right far more often than wrong and who had the stamp of approval from a well-respected senior officer, Greg Lestrade. But then came the fall, the proof that all Sherlock claimed to be was just a lie. And Lestrade fell with him. Dimmock felt foolish ever to have been taken in by them, and disillusionment he had cultivated and disappointment he had nursed for so long did not dissipate with Sherlock's return and acquittal. Dimmock had spent the last three years determined to prove not only that his own detective skills were worth something in their own right, but that they were superior—not a glitzy fabrication worthy of the tabloids but solid, credible police work. He would prove it again today.

He interrogated them together (and _interrogate_ was exactly the word), demanding to know anything and everything they may have touched, questioning their unwillingness to call the cops ('Something you're trying to hide, Holmes?'), and expressing his dubiousness over Sherlock's conclusions, such as the intruder having waltzed through the front door, as his own theory suggested the fire escape. He was appalled to see how Sherlock had altered the original state of the note, touched the wineglasses with bare hands, removed the black brassiere from the drawer where it had been found, and even bagged the bird, claiming he had surely contaminated evidence. He was just laying into John about aiding and abetting criminal behaviour when the forensics team arrived.

'Just stay right there, you two,' Dimmock said with a warning finger, 'I'm not through with you.' He set about barking orders as the team filed through the door, ordering them to sweep for prints and gather samples of hairs and fibres and to photograph every corner and surface from at least three different angles.

'Is his head a little larger, John,' Sherlock muttered, just loud enough for Dimmock to hear, 'or is my memory off?'

'You've always had an impeccable memory, Sherlock,' John replied. 'From what I've observed, you still do.'

Dimmock's face went red, but he snorted as if unstung. 'This coming from the man who failed to _observe_ he was being kidnapped?'

John's face fell, Sherlock's eyes blazed, and Dimmock realised his mistake at once.

'Sorry, sorry,' he said hastily. His face quickly adopted an entirely different shade of red. 'That was entirely uncalled for, grossly inappropriate. I'm sincerely sorry, Dr Watson.'

Recognising his defeat, he turned away, muttering half-heartedly, 'Just stay put a moment, yeah?'

As he slunk away to the kitchen, Sherlock seethed between his teeth, 'Insufferable maggot.'

'It's fine,' said John, though he leaned more heavily on the cane and stared at his shoes.

'It's _not_ fine, it's—' But his jaw snapped shut as the last of the forensics team entered the room.

'Right then, chaps,' said Anderson, hefting a black bag; he was already wearing latex gloves, 'a classic housebreak, I'm told. Let's start with a standard top-to-bottom sweep . . .' Then he caught sight of Sherlock standing near the windows, and John with him. 'The hell?'

Sherlock's chest swelled indignantly. 'I thought you were _suspended_ from cases like these, Anderson.'

Anderson ruffled in return. 'Yeah, well, you heard wrong.'

'Did I.'

With an air of petulance, Anderson shifted his weight to face them more squarely. 'I'm not _suspended_. Lestrade and I have simply agreed not to work together anymore. Conflicting personalities, as it were. A _professional_ decision. Not that you'd know anything about working a legitimate job. The real question is, what are _you_ doing here?'

'I need some air,' said John suddenly. He crossed the room and pushed past Anderson, who was blocking the door.

Anderson winced and sucked air through his teeth. With feigned sympathy, he said to Sherlock, 'Not doing so well, is he?'

Sherlock could hear John descending the stairs; his steps were heavy for a man so light. He felt a sudden and violent need for a cigarette.

'I should go after him. Apologise. You know. For what was said that night.'

'You can stay the hell away from him,' said Sherlock, and he made to follow after.

'Oi! Sherlock Holmes! Just where do you think you're skiving off to?' Dimmock shouted. 'I'm not finished with you!'

'Arrest me.'

He found John just outside the front door, shifting his weight to stave off the sudden cold.

'Hell of a day so far,' John said. He may have meant to pass it off as a joke, but his breath was ragged and his left fist clenched and unclench at his side. But this wasn't panic. It was anger.

'We can go,' said Sherlock. 'Dimmock's heard everything he needs to. He just wants to bully us.'

'I hate to be chased away by _that_.'

'Anderson's a right tosser.'

'He is a bit, yeah,' John agreed, exhaling slowly. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes, trying to calm down. 'Have we bungled this? I mean, by not calling the police to start with.'

'Nah,' said Sherlock, leaning up against the building. He reached inside a pocket to pull out his gloves. 'No laws were broken. I was working in my capacity as a private detective. Or, if you'd prefer, you were exercising your role as one of the Yard's official consultants, and I tagged along as your faithful assistant.'

John shook his head, though a light of amusement shone in his eyes. 'Right, a _medical _consultant, someone hired to examine dead bodies, called in to check the locks.'

'There was a dead wren,' said Sherlock, smiling. 'Your professional opinion, doctor?'

'Death by nursery rhyme.'

'There's a bit of that going around.'

They locked eyes again. There was something close to a grin on John's face, and his left hand had relaxed.

'Shall we?' Sherlock asked, nodding down the street.

'Hang on, Sherlock, I think there's still someone you need to talk to.' And John nodded in the opposite direction.

A man walking down the pavement slowed and pulled a ring of keys from his pocket. He was on the higher end of middle aged, copper-toned skin, and bearing the unmistakable look of a landlord: too many keys on the ring.

Sherlock stood taller and tugged his coat straight. 'Mr Fazal, I presume,' he said, walking straight up to the man and stepping into his path.

The man stopped short and his head snapped up. 'Hullo, yes, who are you?'

'I'm here on behalf of Ms Hooper, a tenant of yours.'

'Are you with the police?'

'I literally am, yes. You've noticed, of course, the funny little cars with lights on.'

Mr Fazal looked around and started, only now noticing the line of panda cars in front of the building. 'Blimey. What's all this about then, eh?'

'Were you at home yesterday, Mr Fazal?'

Behind him, Sherlock heard the front door to the building squeak open. He carried on, though. If it was Dimmock coming to fetch him back, he was determined to squeeze as much information out of Mr Fazal before he was forcibly made to stop.

'I was, yes. Well, not _all_ day. I stepped out 'round four, four-thirty. What's this about?'

But it wasn't Dimmock whose voice he heard.

'Thought I'd step out, nip this craving in the bud.' Sherlock's head spun on his shoulder to see that Anderson had joined John on the side of the building. He was pulling out a pack of smokes and lighting up. 'Might be a long day. Care for one?' he extended the pack to John.

'Did something happen to Ms Hooper?' Mr Fazal said.

Sherlock was of half a mind to ignore Mr Fazal entirely and shout Anderson back up to the flat. But then Mr Fazal said, 'Is she hurt? In trouble? Is that why her sister came 'round?'

His head whipped back so quickly his neck cricked painfully. '_Sister?_'

'I know, I know,' Anderson was saying. 'Bad for the lungs, eh? Well, good for you, staying healthy. More or less.'

'Yes, Molly's sister,' said Mr Fazal. 'Came calling yesterday. Real looker, that one.'

'_Describe her_. What did she look like?'

'Look, Watson. John. What I've been meaning to say: I'm sorry. For what was said that night. That was bang out of line.'

'You know, pretty girl. Stunning. Dark hair, eyes. Nothing like Molly. I'd never take them for sisters if I hadn't been told.'

His attention was dangerously divided, but he had to pursue this line of questioning. 'That's what she told you, is it? That they're sisters?'

'Yes. Are they not?'

'So you just _let her in?_'

'So no hard feelings, eh mate?'

'Yes. She said she's been visiting a couple days. She'd slept in, Molly'd already gone off to work, and she'd accidentally locked herself out of the flat getting the post.'

'You know, you might at least _try _to smile.'

'She wore nothing but a dressing gown. And I mean'—he leaned in conspiratorially—'_nothing_ but a dressing gown, if you follow.' He winked.

'Might do you some good.'

'Couldn't just leave the poor bird locked out of her flat all day, could I?'

'Then one of these days, you might get over this self-pitying act . . .'

'Sorry. Who did you say you were again?'

'. . . and stop walking around like you've still got some bloke's dick up your arse.'

Something broke. Exploded. Sherlock saw white, like a bursting star, and felt red—heat and blood and rage. There was a roaring in his ears, and when he came to himself, he realised it _was_ himself. Anderson was on the ground, blood gushing from his nose and smeared across the knuckles of Sherlock's gloved fist. His eyes were rolling in his head and he swam in and out of consciousness, but Sherlock still shouted, tightening his fists around what turned out to be the front of Anderson's suit coat as he lifted his upper body off the pavement, shaking him like a rag doll.

People were shouting at him to stop, to let go, shouting his name and malicious substitutes. But he couldn't let go. He wanted to stamp the man's face with his foot and rub it into the pavement.

'Sherlock, stop!'

In the end, it was John who pulled him off, who backed him away with one hand pushing against his heaving chest, and who said calmly, 'Don't. Don't.' John's eyes were blurring with tears. 'Don't.'

Sherlock looked over John's head and saw what he'd done. Anderson lay unmoving, his face a mess of blood. Someone was checking for a pulse. Someone was calling for a paramedic. And Dimmock, staring aghast from the doorway, turned to his sergeant, nodded at Sherlock, and said, 'Cuff him.'


	18. From the Pen of Kitty Riley

**CHAPTER 18: FROM THE PEN OF KITTY RILEY**

**SATURDAY–SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 14–15, 2015**

Over the next few days, Sherlock Holmes was the top story on BBC News, Channel 4 News, ITN, Sky News, and CTV London, and his face—never smiling, deliberately darkened, caught at unfavourable angles—sullied the front page of every major Sunday newspaper in the city, and most of the minor ones. But it was the article in _The Sun_, penned its star investigative journalist, that had the inside scoop.

**_Sham Genius Sherlock Holmes Busted for Assault_**

_by Senior Reporter Kitty Riley_

_London – The verdict is in: Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous and violent madman._

_On February 14, a day celebrated by most as a time of love and romance, Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, Westminster, London, launched a vicious and unprovoked attack on Scott Anderson, Head of Forensics at New Scotland Yard, while the latter was in the course of his duties. Officers in the vicinity arrested Holmes on sight._

_The brutal attack left Anderson with a severely broken nose, burst ocular blood vessels, and numerous severe contusions (see page 3 for photographs)._

_When Anderson regained consciousness, he was surprised to discover himself in hospital. The 44-year-old forensics specialist from Reading recounts the seconds preceding Holmes' ruthless assault:_

_'He came out of nowhere. I was minding my own business, not talking to him at all, when he just snapped. Went completely mental. I thought he wanted to kill me, and I hadn't done a thing to him. Not a thing.'_

_Witness Nakul Fazal, an innocent bystander, adds, 'It was Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde right before my eyes. One minute, I am talking to a sane man. Then I blinked, and he had become a monster.'_

_Inside sources claim that Holmes has been mentally and emotionally unstable ever since his sudden return to London after more than three years of lying about his own death, an elaborate stunt enacted to evade charges of kidnapping and homicide. More recently, however, his volatility has been exacerbated due to ex-girlfriend Molly Hooper's continual rebuffs of his renewed advances. Hooper was involved with Holmes back in June 2011 when she assisted him in faking his own death, going so far as to forge the medical certificate of death and to sign her name to the falsified autopsy report. Charges against Ms Hooper for these illegal actions are pending._

_However it is that Hooper assisted Holmes in the past, their relationship of late has not been amicable. According to anonymous insiders, Holmes has been terrorising Hooper for weeks by sending her threatening text messages and phone calls, abducting her cat, and leaving the corpses of mutilated animals in her flat. Reportedly, the night before the attack on Anderson, which took place just outside Hooper's building, Holmes locked Hooper inside her own flat and refused to let her leave or use her phone to call her boyfriend, Metropolitan Police detective inspector Gregory Lestrade, Holmes' long-time professional rival._

_Of Holmes' erratic behaviour, Ms Hooper said, 'I'm just scared. I want this all to go away.'_

_DI Lestrade was not available for comment, nor was Dr John Watson, Holmes' associate and recent victim in the St Mary's abductions, which is rumoured to be another of the amateur detective's schemes. It has been suggested, however, that Watson, too, was being detained alongside Hooper and is still too traumatised by his prior captivity to comment._

_Although Mr Holmes has been arrested and charged, it is too early to know what his fate will be. One can only wonder whether the Yard will issue a formal apology for its gross misjudgement of Holmes' character, and for excusing his past crimes. As for Mr Anderson, forgiveness will come slowly, if it comes at all._

_'If he'd only been arrested back in October,' he said, 'I wouldn't be sitting in a hospital bed today.'_

* * *

She came in to see him late Sunday evening, while he was spooning ambiguously flavoured red hospital jelly into his mouth. The flavour didn't matter, though. With the busted nose, he really couldn't taste much of anything.

'Sally?'

'Hi,' she said with a small smile, stepping closer to the bed. There was a startling look of contrition about her. She squeezed his big toe through the blanket and gave it a friendly wiggle. 'Damn, look at you. That nose has got to hurt something awful.'

The truth was, he was pumped full of enough painkillers that all he could really make out was dull buzzing in the middle of his black-and-blue face. But Sally Donovan was offering her sympathies, and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to take advantage of this rare treat. So he nodded miserably as she sat in the chair beside him where his mum had spent a good portion of the morning before heading back to Reading, promising to bring him a whole sack of those Jelly Babies he liked so much when she returned.

'You know,' Donovan said slowly. Her eyes were downcast, staring at the palms of her hands before looking up at him through long lashes. He had always found her eyes alluring with their rich brown irises, so dark they were almost black. 'It's not easy for me to admit that I was ever wrong . . .'

Oh lord, she was finally seeing it. A red-letter day. He wanted to reach out and touch her. He knew, maybe better than anyone, how smooth her skin was. Sally was a hard and rigid woman, but there was so much about her that was soft, supple.

'. . . that I was mistaken in my judgement . . .'

If she came just a little closer, he could touch the tight spirals of her hair. He had once loved getting his fingers tangled in its deceptive, unnavigable pathways.

'. . . a judgement I once defended openly, despite myself, despite others' warnings and disapproval. But I was wrong from the start. Wasn't I?'

He nodded benevolently and parted his lips to console her, to say that they all made mistakes from time to time, and he was ready to accept her apology and forgive . . .

'It was my own fault, I suppose, for ever getting involved with a married man. That should have told me something about his moral depravity right there.'

'Wait, what?'

'I can't help but hate myself a little. Just a little.'

'You're talking about _me?_'

'Dear old Anderson,' she said with a sigh, no longer hiding the contempt from her eyes, 'we've been through so much together. So you can be honest with me. Are you shagging Kitty Riley?'

'_What?_'

'You know, sweet Kitty, the poor, struggling journalist from _The Sun_, whose passion is and always has been to bring the "truth" to the people. Are. You. _Shagging_. Her?'

Anderson spluttered and the weak, warm jelly sploshed around in the bowl.

'Or is the price of your collusion a little higher than a good shag? The cost of divorce can be pretty devastating, can't it? Did Susan take you for all you were worth? Pity, that. What did you agree to so you could get back on top? Five thousand pounds? Ten thousand?'

'_Stop it_.'

'Ooh, _more _than ten thousand? I think you're looking at something more severe than just getting sacked, am I right? I think you're looking at serving _time_.'

'What are you _talking_ about? I didn't take any money! Holmes _attacked_ me! Look what he did to me!' He waved a hand at his busted face.

'Oh please, I've seen worse beatings in pub brawls. Go on, be honest: Was it _really _Sherlock's smacking you about that made you black out, or did you faint at the sight of your own blood?'

He gaped at her.

'For someone who works in blood-splattered crime scenes, you can be awfully squeamish at the sight of your own.'

'This is outrageous! Holmes came at me like an animal!'

'Yes, and after what you did to incite him, it's a wonder you're not sucking that jelly through a straw.'

'I didn't do a damn thing! I was talking to Watson, trying apologise . . .'

She shot to her feet, planted a locked arm on either side of where he lay in his elevated bed, and hissed, 'You're a goddam liar. Holmes was _very_ detailed about what happened, the horrid things you said, and Watson confirmed every word.'

'Watson's delusional! He's impressionable! They probably concocted the whole thing together.' He suddenly backtracked. 'In any case, _what_ word? _What_ was I supposed to have said? But more importantly, what the hell does it matter? Even if I'd said that— that— that— that Watson was a blithering moron for taking on with that freak again, you think that justifies his going berserk and caving my face in?'

'You're a real pansy, you know that? You're barely hurt. John Watson's broken nose was the _least _of his problems. You want to feel sorry for someone? Feel sorry for him. But no. _You_ have a go at him anyway but practically piss yourself when Sherlock turns a hard glance at you. Who spends two days and a night in hospital for a broken nose anyway?'

'I did _nothing _to deserve—!'

She guffawed loudly, straightened, glared down at him dangerously. 'Kitty Riley might try to draw you as some hapless victim or tragic hero, but you forget: _I was there_ when you made an arse of yourself the first time. A dozen of us heard you that night, mocking the victim of a vicious rape _about_ his rape, so we all know you're an out-and-out tit. You torment a man who was brutalised for ten days, and you want me to feel sorry for your well-deserved collision with someone who wasn't about to tolerate any more of your bullshit?'

'I told you! I didn't say _anything _to Watson besides sorry! You weren't there! You didn't see how Sherlock came unhinged! It's like I've been telling you for weeks: He's dangerous, he's mad, he was bound to hurt someone. I was just the unlucky sod he decided to turn on.'

'See, here's the difference between you and Sherlock—besides the size of your brains. Someone has a go at you, and, coward that you are, you retaliate by going after one of his mates. But you get on the wrong side of Sherlock_ or_ one of his mates, and he'll just go after _you_. Something admirable in that, and I'm not loathe to admit it.'

'I wasn't having a go at anyone. I. Did. _Nothing_.'

She shrugged, though her scowl defied her indifference. 'Is that the version you're sticking with? Fine. I guess it will all come out during the inquest.'

'The what?'

'_That's_ why I'm here.' She pulled out an envelope from the inside of her leather attaché. 'All of London may be sopping up the sob story you and Ms Riley have concocted . . .'

'Wait just a minute—'

'. . . but the Yard is proceeding with _both_ eyes open. You already have two official strikes against you, Anderson. One: The unsanctioned interview you gave to the press last October; and two: the obtuse comment you let slip in January that led to your three-day suspension. As of today, you are officially on unpaid mandatory leave. An internal investigation into your recent unsavoury behaviour will be conducted to determine whether you keep your job at the Yard.'

'You can't be serious. Because of a scuffle?'

'What scuffle, Anderson? Just seconds ago you were calling it a _vicious attack_.'

His mind was spinning rapidly, in near blind panic. 'They can't find me guilty of saying something I never said,' he said weakly. 'And even if they did, they wouldn't _sack_ me over, um, _words_.'

'Officially,' she said with a sneer, 'this is an investigation into the more serious matter of your supposed collusion with Kitty Riley and her campaign to paint Holmes as the blackest of villains.'

'Absurd,' he said without breath.

'That's behaviour unbecoming an employee of New Scotland Yard.' She laid the envelope on his blanketed lap, her smile belying the intensity of her vindictiveness.

'You—' he said tremulously, 'you're not, that is, they wouldn't let _you_ conduct the investigation. Right?'

'Me? With our history? Oh no, of course not.' She headed toward the door, her heels clicking with each step. 'No, I'm being called to testify.'

'But you weren't there!'

'Character witness, love,' she said.

She disappeared through the open doorway. He stared after her, horror-struck. Then, with shaking hands, he picked up the envelope, but before he could tear open the flap, another body darkened the doorway. He looked up to see Greg Lestrade, suit coat unbuttoned and hands deep in trouser pockets.

'Lord, you didn't just get on the wrong side of _Sally Donovan_, did you?' he asked. Then he winced and shook his head in affected pity. 'Rotten luck, mate. No man has ever come through _that_ unscathed. Ask any of us. Sherlock Holmes included.'

There was no humour in his eyes, no hint of a smile, only hatred. 'Cheers,' said Lestrade, and he turned his back and left.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was kept in a holding cell for twenty-three hours before he was officially charged. After that, he was detained further while it was decided whether his release was a public danger. Once the legal thirty-six hours had expired, he was at last detained pending bail only. And though bail was promptly paid, a hold-up in processing the paperwork postponed his release even further. All told, he spent a full two nights and three days in police custody, where he was virtually ignored by the custody sergeant, before being released on bail and given a mandate to appear for his court hearing, which was scheduled for March 2, still two weeks away.

Meanwhile, as he languished within solitary grey walls and behind a steel door, the full consequences of Kitty Riley's article were only beginning to unfold.

Within twenty-four hours, Molly Hooper received official sanctions at work, prohibiting her from handling bodies and restricting her to lab work. She was to have nothing to do whatsoever with criminal or even suspected criminal deaths. Dr Torrence, though cordial as ever, now regarded her with an unprecedented measure of caution, and her colleagues made a point to avoid her, some simply for lack of knowing what to say, but most because she was tangled with Sherlock Holmes, whom they all knew was a bad piece of work. Criminal charges now stood against her, and though no one said it aloud, they were embarrassed by the association and how her actions might sully their department, if not their profession. They hoped, secretly, that Molly would do what she did best: to leave, and to do so quietly.

And then her landlord, Nakul Fazal, asked her to move out. He had no _legal_ grounds to evict her—though he looked for one—but he made it clear that he disliked the company she kept, and that the neighbours, too, had lately expressed their unease. Molly, who was not one to deal easily with confrontations of the sort Fazal presented, agreed to be out within the week. Though his request was inconvenient (and hurtful), she couldn't claim to be heartbroken. She'd not been there even half a year, after all. And frankly, she no longer felt safe within those walls, anyway.

'Stay with me,' Lestrade said the moment she told him. The words jumped from his lips without a second's hesitation, as if he had anticipated this happening, or had at least been preparing to offer it regardless.

'You wouldn't mind?'

He gave her a look that suggested both incredulity and teasing. But not presumption.

'You know I have more space than I really need. The guest bedroom, the upstairs bathroom, it's yours. You can stay as long as you like. That is, if you don't have anywhere else to go.'

But she didn't see moving in with him, however temporarily, a matter of last recourse. She had been hoping he would offer.

As for Lestrade, he was _formally_ without fault, given that Dimmock had propitiously ordered him away from the scene. Nevertheless, he had fallen a few pegs in the eyes of the chief superintendent because it had been he who had vouched for Holmes in the beginning and assured Gregson that if anyone could solve the Slash Man serial killings, it was Sherlock. But the bodies kept turning up, the public grew more and more afraid every day, and now one of their own had been beaten soundly by the very man they had cleared of all suspicion not six weeks before.

'You promised me,' said Gregson to Lestrade behind closed doors, 'that we could trust him. You gave me your word I wouldn't regret bringing him on.'

To this, Lestrade had only one reply. 'I meant what I said. And I stand by it.'

Lestrade's convictions be damned: they retracted all permissions that had been granted to Sherlock in the name of good faith. He was not allowed anywhere near a crime scene ever again (that was, if he wasn't serving time for the assault on Anderson, and Yarders were already taking bets); he was not to handle or even to know of evidence; and neither Lestrade nor anyone else was to discuss any aspect of the investigation that was not related directly to Holmes' or Watson's basic safety. The resolution of this matter was strictly of concern to the Metropolitan Police.

Opinions in the Yard were divided, not as to the matter of whether Holmes should have been permitted to continue to investigate with the Met—everyone had disagreed with that from the start—but as to whether Holmes had been justified in knocking Anderson out cold with just two solid strikes, as was reported. They were torn between their hatred of Holmes and their general dislike of Anderson. Most, of course, defended Anderson to the hilt, because no matter the circumstance or provocation (if there was indeed provocation, and not everyone—particularly readers of _The Sun—_were convinced that there had been), there was no cause for such a violent outburst. 'What if it had been you?' they asked one another. 'Or what if he'd attacked your partner? Holmes is unsafe, always has been, and it's all finally coming out.'

But Holmes had been interrogated, Watson interviewed, and the gossip of what they said—of what _Anderson_ had said—circulated quickly. For some, the balance was tipping in Holmes' favour. 'Anderson said _what_ to Watson_?_' 'Good lord, what is his _problem?_' 'Yeah, I would have broken his nose, too!' And when some questioned their loyalty to a fellow Yarder, they turned it around and questioned theirs: 'If it had been your mate? If Anderson had said that to a friend of _yours?_' The defenders were few in number, but they were unwavering.

As for John. After giving his statement and being denied his request to talk to Sherlock or visit him in holding, he found himself standing alone on the street before the station with nothing but his aluminium cane, a mobile, and a handful of crumpled banknotes in his pocket. Not enough for a cab, and he didn't think he could handle a crowded bus or train. Not today.

Before he could decide what to do, a shiny black town car rolled to a stop in front of him. He fell back a step, and his empty stomach tensed unpleasantly. When Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the car, it didn't relax.

'John.'

'He's in there,' John said, gesturing with his head.

'I know,' Mycroft said with a sigh and a pitiable shake of his head. 'But I'm here for you. You need a lift.'

John didn't move. 'Sherlock's been arrested, and you won't go in and see him?'

'I will, eventually. He's not going anywhere.' John sniffed in disapproval. 'First, I'm going to take you home.'

'No thank you.'

'You can't walk,' said Mycroft. 'And I know your aversion to cabbies and public transport.'

John looked away, contemplating the time and distance it would take to limp all the way home. Already his leg was bothering him. 'I'll call Lestrade.'

'He's busy. My brother's certainly seen to that. Get in the car, John. Don't make me beg.'

John hesitated a few moments longer, weighing his options, knowing it was a sensible decision but being disinclined to make it. Mycroft waited him out. At last, he stepped forward, saying drily, 'Wouldn't that be a sight.'

Mycroft held the door for him as he climbed inside, then stepped around to the other side of the car and joined him in the backseat. 'Baker Street,' he said to the driver. 'Unless,' he turned his head to John, 'you'd rather stay somewhere else tonight? I have multiple guest rooms—'

'Mrs Hudson is expecting me for dinner,' said John quickly.

'All the same, should you be in want of company . . .'

'Why? Are you?'

Mycroft's smile was small and tight. 'Just an offer.'

John turned his head away and stared out of the window. He had already considered what Mycroft was implying, but it was a private matter, and he resented Mycroft's perceptiveness. John hadn't spent a night alone—that was, a night without Sherlock nearby—since leaving his prolonged stay in hospital. Even there, Sherlock had invited himself to stay in the room with him. He hadn't really considered it before, but he knew now, anticipating an absence, that there had been comfort in falling asleep, even when he dreaded falling asleep, because of the assurance that if anything happened, if he had a living nightmare or panic attack, Sherlock would be there to set him right. Tonight, he wouldn't have that. But worse than the thought of sleeping in an empty flat was the thought that somebody, like Mycroft, would see him in such a deplorable state and discover what a mess he still was. Now, his only comfort was in knowing that the pistol was now with Molly. If worse came to worst, at least he wouldn't shoot anyone.

To cut through the oppressive silence that had followed John into the car, Mycroft said, 'I understand that there was a bit of a to-do at Ms Hooper's last night.' His tone was conversational, inconsequential. 'How is she?'

'Molly's fine,' said John shortly.

'There was a break-in, as I understand. Anything taken?'

'Don't pretend you don't know.'

'As a point of fact, I don't. I heard about an incident in her flat only upon learning of Sherlock's arrest. All other details have been slow in coming. I was hoping you could enlighten me.'

'I'm not one of your informants.'

'John—'

'Look, just so I know, because this has been gnawing at me since I learnt otherwise, but _just so I know now_, what else have you been lying to me about?'

'When did I ever lie to you?'

'Did you know, did _you_ know, that Irene Adler wasn't really dead?'

'Ms Adler?' he said, as though in genuine surprise.

'If you can stand to be bloody honest with me for just two seconds, did you _know_ she was never killed? All that rubbish about witness protection schemes and protecting Sherlock, was it just about keeping _me_ in the dark in the end? Did the two of you concoct that one together?'

'I promise you, I believed her dead for years, right up until Sherlock told me otherwise.'

'But you knew she was dangerous. From the start, you knew _that_.'

'Dangerous? Yes. As a conniver and an extortionist, I knew it. But I never imagined . . . that is, I couldn't fathom what she was truly capable of.'

A sharp burst of pain spiked up John's leg and reverberated in his knee. He flinched and squeezed the muscles there, the pressure lessening the pain, if only a little. 'I bet you couldn't,' he said, breathless.

'I should never have allowed Sherlock to take part in that case. I know that now. It is one of the deepest regrets of my life. And where Sherlock is concerned, I have many.'

John sensed that Mycroft was trying to catch his eye, but he couldn't look at him; instead, he stared determinedly out the window.

'I am sorry I let her go. It was an act of cruelty, and I knew it, though I believed it was against _her_. Instead, it has proved to be a turn of malice against my own brother. I regret that very much indeed. Not least of all because of what my folly has meant for _you_.'

John cleared his throat uncomfortably.

'I don't expect you to believe me, and I doubt the usefulness of the words, but I am sorry, John.'

He didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't accept it, he couldn't reject it. He was feeling too much, and he didn't want to. So he kept his mouth closed and watched the city flash by.

'What I did know,' Mycroft continued, 'was the truth about Sherlock.' John started visibly at this, and Mycroft, seeing it, hurried to clarify. 'Not that he was alive. No, not that. But the truth of who he is as a man. People around him, people close to him—they get hurt. He's toxic, John, and I should have warned you from the start. He doesn't mean to be, he doesn't _want_ to be. But he is.'

'Why are you saying this?'

'I'm saying this because Sherlock won't. He feels an obligation to you, but you should know that you have none to him.'

'Obligation,' John repeated softly.

'No one can deny that your association with him has taxed you greatly. You've given him enough. No one is asking you to give any more.'

John's head was spinning. The conversation had taken an unwelcome turn, and he could scarcely make sense of it. What was Mycroft suggesting that he do? Leave? The very thought felt like a dead weight in his chest. Where would he go? What would he do? He couldn't return to that kind of life, not yet, he wasn't strong enough. _Why was Mycroft saying this!_ Were all of Sherlock's gestures—the rare kindnesses and small services and watchful eye—all symptoms of a guilty conscience and not— Not what? What had he thought they were?

Whatever it meant, he needed to square it with the conversation he and Molly had had as they sat tea together in 221B:

_'He should be here, soon,' John said, handing her a cup. 'You know Sherlock—he'll make quick sense of everything. He'll be a fair bit more useful to you than I am.'_

_'I'm just glad you were home,' Molly replied. 'You know. To talk to. I was in a bit of state. He's not so great with people like that.' He wasn't sure how to respond to that, wasn't sure how to either sympathise or disagree, and so he said nothing. Molly wrapped a hand around the bottom of the cup to feel its warmth. 'I'm lucky you didn't go out with him.'_

_'And slow him down? Best not. I'm a bit of millstone these days.'_

_She smiled with concern. 'I'm sure he doesn't think that. He, you know, needs you. He relies on your being there.'_

_'That's just the addict in him.'_

_'Pardon?'_

_'He's a man of habit, isn't he. Once he gets used to something, it becomes part of his daily routine, good or bad. So yeah. He came to rely on me, after a fashion, once. There was a time he even called me a _stimulant._' He shook his head, half in exasperation, half in something else. 'I might as well be cocaine as far as he's concerned.' Then his tone turned sour. 'Withdrawals must have been hard on the poor bastard. Lucky now he gets his daily fix.'_

_At this, Molly appeared, to John's surprise and regret, alarmed. 'Surely, you don't actually—' She stopped short, and her cheeks flushed._

_'What?' he asked. When she pursed her lips and shook her head apologetically, he pressed her. 'I don't what, Molly?'_

_'I shouldn't say . . .'_

_'You've already started.'_

_She winced. 'Surely, you don't _really_ . . . hate him?'_

_Whatever he had been expecting her to say, it wasn't that. He stared at her, nonplussed. When he found his voice again, he said, 'Hate him? Why would you say that?'_

_But she seemed to realise she was in error, divulging a confidence, and bit her bottom lip. Only at his continued urging did she finish. 'He thinks you can't stand him. He told me that you tolerate him only because you need him to find . . . them. That's why, he says, you came back to Baker Street.'_

_'To _use_ him?'_

_'Yes. And once he's done it, you'll be done with him. Then you'll leave.'_

_John had forgotten about his tea. He sat back deep in his chair, stunned._

_'Will you?' she asked at last._

_But at that moment, the bell sounded: S-H._

'You know better than anyone,' Mycroft was saying, 'the price of taking up with a man like Sherlock. He's detrimental to your recovery, John, you must know that. Whatever he drags you into next, whatever new malice he attracts to his doorstep: you need not suffer it any longer. It may be that the best way for you to move forward'—he took a bracing breath—'is to move in your own direction.'

'This is far enough,' said John, shifting forward in his seat and taking hold of his cane.

'What's that?'

'Here. Right here. Stop the car.'

The driver glanced questioningly at Mycroft in the rearview mirror.

'John, don't be ridiculous,' said Mycroft. 'We've still miles to go before—'

'I'm getting out. Excuse me'—he leant forward to address the driver directly—'stop the car.'

'This is a bit of an overreaction.'

John said nothing as the car rolled to the corner, but before it had even stopped completely, he had opened the door to leave. He had one foot out the door when he paused just long enough to say, 'You have it the wrong way 'round, Mycroft. Why do you think he disappeared for three years? Why do you think he's at this very moment sitting in a jail cell? I'm the toxic one, not Sherlock.'

* * *

The evening of his arrest, the custody sergeant sent one of the other guards to transport Sherlock from his holding cell, where he had been waiting in cuffs for several hours, back down to interrogation. He sat at the bare table, interlaced his long fingers (his fist ached, but he ignored it) on the table top with an air of dignity that belied the handcuffs, and waited.

Minutes later, Mycroft and Lestrade entered the room together.

'What's this?' Sherlock said without inflection. His face, too, lacked expression. 'Mother and Father come to scold me?'

Lestrade looked taken aback, likely wondering which character he was meant to represent in this scenario. Mycroft merely scowled.

'If you don't like it, perhaps you should stop behaving like a child.'

'Now now, it's nothing like that,' said Lestrade. But before he closed the door behind him, he stepped back out of the room, and Sherlock heard him shout down the hall: 'Oi! Let's get the cuffs off him, yeah?' He returned with an angered expression. 'Sorry, Sherlock. Leaving you in those things isn't protocol.'

Sherlock ignored this. 'How is he?'

Letting out a long breath, Lestrade returned, 'In hospital.' Sherlock betrayed his first emotion by flinching, rattling the cuffs on the table. 'Broken nose for sure. Bad swelling. He'll be fine, but he'll also milk it for all that it's—'

'I wasn't talking about _Anderson_.'

'John's fine,' said Mycroft. 'He went home.'

'How long until I'm out?'

'We're working on it,' said Lestrade. 'But it's not good, Sherlock. There will be fallout from this.'

'I can handle it. It'll be fine. Just get me out so I can be home tonight.'

'You think we can just wave a magic wand and make this all just go away?' said Mycroft.

'You have influence.'

'Not over every newspaper in the city. Not over public opinion. Not over the basic tenets of _law_. Just what the hell were you thinking, Sherlock?'

'I—'

'You weren't. And that's the problem. That's _always _been your problem. You're an emotional idiot, Sherlock, allowing yourself to be compromised like that.'

'I told you what Anderson said,' said Lestrade to Mycroft, teeth grinding. 'Any man would be hard-pressed not to react like—'

'Sherlock isn't _allowed_ to be _any man_. He's too deeply mired in greater things, so even his slighter actions have large consequences.' He turned a hard eye on Sherlock. 'You know what they're doing out there, right now, Moriarty's people? They're laughing their arses off. This is how they destroy you: they just sit back and watch you destroy yourself. You are your own worst enemy, Sherlock, always have been.'

'That's enough,' said Lestrade. 'This isn't helping anything.'

'_Never learns_,' Mycroft said scathingly, losing a little control himself and turning away.

'Fine. Now let's go over what happened, exactly, and talk solicitors. I know a guy—'

'If I'm not getting out tonight,' Sherlock interrupted, reconfiguring his mask, 'someone needs to look in on John.'

'I'm planning to—' Lestrade began.

'See that he eats. That he takes his pills. Especially the Benzodiazepine. That'll help. And if he asks, tell him I'm bored in here, that's all. That'll be enough.'

Lestrade started speaking, but Mycroft turned back. 'John's a grown man, he can take care of himself. Not that adulthood is any indication of self-sufficiency. Clearly.'

'Now who's being the idiot?' Sherlock said with a snarl.

'He needs some time away from you.'

'I'll go over, Sherlock,' Lestrade cut in. 'I'll let him know what's going on, downplay the gravity of it all.'

'Wonderful,' said Mycroft. 'You have your project. Now if you wouldn't mind, detective inspector, I'd like a private word with my little brother.'

* * *

By the time John finally arrived back at 221, his leg was on fire and hot beads of sweat slipped down his wind-chilled cheeks. Then, with the door bolted behind him, he rested a shoulder against the wall at the foot of the stairs to catch his breath. He was unwilling to make the climb to the empty flat, and though he could hear Mrs Hudson bustling about in her kitchen, already preparing dinner, he didn't want for company. So he sat on the stair and stretched his leg out in front of him, massaging the aching calf at the scar tissue, and time fell away from him, twenty minutes, thirty minutes, forty, listening to Mrs Hudson move about as he cooled and calmed and tried to forget his encounter with Mycroft Holmes.

As promised, he joined Mrs Hudson in her flat for a simple dinner of cock-a-leekie soup. At first, he excused Sherlock's absence to her with an unspecific though accurate justification: 'He's been detained.' But as the dinner progressed, after she was done fussing over him and bemoaning the unyielding cold, he confessed to her where Sherlock really was, knowing it was bound to come out sooner or later (though he was not fully anticipating the news stories that would appear the next morning). He spared her the details, used words like _hit_ and not _assault_, assured her that the charge wasn't too serious, and reminded her that this wasn't his first arrest. They reasoned together, eating slowly, that Sherlock would most likely be back home tomorrow.

'Mycroft will take care of it,' he said, hiding his dubiousness.

'He's a funny one, that Mycroft,' said Mrs Hudson, expressing her own.

They sat at the table while the soup cooled on the cooker, talking of things inconsequential and light for an hour after eating: Mrs Hudson's plans for changing the wallpaper in her bedroom, a new programme on the telly about home makeover disasters, and the closing of Mrs Hudson's favourite retail outlet. While she carried on, John's mind wandered to the jail where Sherlock was being kept, wondering what he was doing to keep his overactive mind occupied and hoping they were treating him fairly, regardless of his crime. It wasn't a Libyan lockdown cell, but John knew the police had no fondness for Sherlock. He tried to believe his own words of assertion, that Sherlock would be released in the morning.

He helped her with the washing-up and sidestepped her gentle queries about his sessions with Dr Thompson, and, in the end, stooped a little to let her kiss his cheek goodnight. He returned at last to a flat that, despite its clutter, felt so empty. He physically shook his head to dispel the echo that whispered of permanence, and he went straight for the anxiety medication he'd been too long without. Then he sought distraction.

First he tried to watch BBC 1, but halfway through the programme he realised that he had no clue what was going on because his thoughts were too intensely engaged on the street outside of Molly's flat. He tried to put himself to work straightening up the kitchen and Sherlock's experiments, but Mrs Hudson had already done a thorough job of cleaning what could be cleaned and leaving what Sherlock wouldn't want touched. After that, he found himself in the bathroom, contemplating a shower, but he knew, ultimately, that he still couldn't do it—completely undress, that was. And tonight wasn't a night to risk any degree of panic. So he spot-cleaned, as was now his custom—arms, pits, neck, and face—leaving the rest for the morning, when he was rested and sleep was again many hours away.

But then he found himself back in the sitting room; the hour was getting later, and the thought of sleep—and maybe it was just Mycroft in his head—made him queasy. He thought of Ella's exercises—counting and breathing and safe zones—but he didn't want to do any of it. He hate it. _He hated it_. He hated that he was this way now, a grown man afraid to fall asleep alone. He hated the skin he wore, the darkness of his mind, the feebleness of his heart. He was a lesser man not just in some ways, but in every way, and he always would be.

His mobile rang.

'Hello?'

'John? It's Greg Lestrade.'

'Did they finally let you in to see him?'

'Only because I had Mycroft with me.' He laughed shortly. 'You'd think I'd have a little more sway.'

'How is he?'

'Bored. You know Sherlock. He's a man who needs an occupation. He hates just sitting around.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'Look, John—'

'So what happens next?'

'Well, legally, they can't hold him longer that twenty-four hours without charging him. Then they'll set bail. Why don't I stop by on my way home? We can talk more.'

John paused, suspecting what Lestrade was really asking. _Why_ he was asking. He felt his cheeks flush a little. 'Don't trouble yourself.'

'It's not an inconvenience. Actually, I'd like—'

'No. Really, Greg. I'm good. You can tell Sherlock I'm good.' He meant it, too. He was home now, and though he'd had an attack earlier that day, he'd managed it well enough, and he'd be sure to avoid any other triggers. As for nightmares? He handled those on his own anyway. Lately, he had been awaking in the morning following a bad dream feeling . . . better. More stable. So no one had to know.

'Are you sure, John?' said Lestrade, understanding that they were speaking the same language now, even without breaking euphemism. 'It's no trouble. Really.'

'Mrs Hudson and I had dinner together.' Then he lied. 'She and I will just be watching telly all night. But, you know, thanks, all the same.'

There wasn't an immediate response. Lestrade was trying to think of the most tactful way to continue insisting. So John stepped on his first word. 'I'll talk to you later, yeah? Bye, Greg.' And before he could be otherwise persuaded or backtrack himself, he hung up.

He set the phone on the desk, realising in the space of a skipped heartbeat that he had just thrown away the lifeline Sherlock had thrown him. He could call back. Of course he could. But what use would that be? What could Lestrade do? He was fine. He knew he was fine. Even so, even as he made a beeline for the cupboard for a glass of water from the tap, he recited to himself under his breath, 'I am in control. I know what I feel isn't real. I know this will pass.' He drank two full glasses at the sink, filled another, and returned to the sitting room.

There, his eyes fell to his and Sherlock's closed laptops, resting across from one another on the desk. He needed an occupation. He needed to be . . . useful. Since last night, and in light of that morning's events, he hadn't given much more thought to their conversation last night. Maybe that's what Sherlock was doing right now, but he didn't have access to all his resources right now. John did.

He sat on Sherlock's side of the table, opened Sherlock's laptop, and entered Sherlock's password. Whatever work Sherlock had done on his own would be kept here: files, charts, spreadsheets, all of it. But John started by opening a web browser. He would first review the nursery rhymes Sherlock had researched by checking his internet history.

The story of Jack and Jill came up first as the most recent website Sherlock had visited, and John was on the verge of clicking the web page opened when he paused. Below a short list linking to original nursery rhymes and analyses, John saw a different string of websites: J & A Beare, Frederick Phelps, and Stringers Music, and Cardiff Violins—all violin shops. John frowned as he scrolled down further. Dozens of visits to dozens of different pages, all violins.

Then John's finger stilled and his eyes narrowed as he read the other names of sites and searches, pages titled 'How to help someone with PTSD', 'Panic disorder treatment', 'Side effects of benzodiazepine', and 'Should you wake a sleepwalker?'

Sleepwalker? Surely, Sherlock didn't mean _him_. He did a quick search for all the websites related to sleepwalking that Sherlock had visited and found a lengthy list dating back to early January. Searches included questions: 'Is sleepwalking dangerous?' and 'What triggers sleepwalking?' and 'Sleepwalkers and sleeptalkers—What do they remember?'

Was he really sleepwalking? He must have been! What other reason would Sherlock have to search this topic so many times in so many ways? But how often? And what did he do? Where did he try to go? His heart was pounding again, and his level of anxiety increased from a three to a four.

'Damn it,' he said, pushing himself to his feet. He paced across the floor, feeling his hands begin to shake. '_Damn_ it,' he repeated. He limped back to the desk, grabbed up the phone, and dialled quickly.

'This is Dr Thompson.'

'Ella.' He rubbed a trembling hand across his face. Suddenly, he didn't know what to say.

'John? Are you all right?'

'Yes. No. I don't know.'

'Where are you?'

'I'm . . . at home. You said,' he swallowed hard, cleared his throat, 'you said I could call. When I needed to.'

'Of course you can. Whenever you need to. John. What's wrong?'

'I've lost my, um, my safety net.'

'Okay. I understand. First, are you taking care of yourself? Have you taken your medication today?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sleeping well?'

'Yes, I . . . Well, I don't know anymore. Maybe not. I'm just feeling a little anxious right now. I don't want it to get out of control. Not when . . . That is, I'm sort of on my own tonight.'

'Okay. John, I want you to remember: all control comes from _you_. Everything else is just aids—your medication, your safety zone, even your safety net. Right?'

'Right. I know that. I'm just . . . feeling . . .'

'It's okay. Let's talk about it.'

For the next twenty minutes, they talked, and though John never got specific—there were still some things he couldn't speak aloud, certain emotions he couldn't confess—he was never dishonest. And once he could claim to be a two-and-a-half on the scale, she said, 'Now that you're feeling calmer, there's one more thing I want you to do before you try to sleep tonight.'

'What?'

'Write.'

'Write?'

'It's the one exercise I've given you that you have yet to do.'

'I . . . can't write about . . . those things. Not tonight.'

'Don't write about that. Write about tonight, the things you are feeling. Just write. I've told you that writing is your way of making sense of things, including yourself. You'll feel better, John. I promise.'

'. . . Okay.'

They said goodbye. For a few seconds, John didn't move, just stared at the mobile in his hand, wishing Sherlock would text, wishing Lestrade would come over anyway, wishing Mrs Hudson would pop up for no reason at all. But these things weren't going to happen. He was alone.

So he sat at the desk and opened the computer. Seconds later, he was staring a blank screen, the text cursor blinking in the upper left-hand side of a white page. His fingers hovered over the keyboard until the tips of his index fingers brushed the little lined grooves on the black keys below them. And froze.

He didn't know how to start, what to say. But he didn't want to write about himself. He never had. He had never seen himself as a subject of interest, and now that he was, he couldn't bear to explore what he had become. He had avoided writing about his experiences for that very reason, and because he had already related it all—for Lestrade, for Sherlock, and now, bit by bit, for Ella. Each time was hell, and he couldn't bring himself to write a word of it.

But there had always been Sherlock. Sherlock's life, cases, habits, character. The words had once come easily, writing had been a pleasure, and though he never believed he would take up the subject again, he had missed it, the act of writing, of telling Sherlock's story.

And so he began:

_Molly Hooper came to the flat last night, frightened but faithful, looking for Sherlock, consulting detective._

As before, he became the spectator in the story, less a player, more an observer. He delved into his memories of the last thirty hours and translated them into clear images and verbatim dialogue onto the page.

_He sniffed the air as he entered her flat, like a hound searching out the same scent as had been left on the note. 'Where's the rose now?' he asked Molly, and she retrieved it from the kitchen._

His fingers plucked out the needed letters with greater speed now, eagerly listening to Sherlock explain about the claret, following him into the bathroom where the message had been left on the mirror, and then to the bedroom where he made his final reveal.

_And there he made known what should have been obvious to us from the start. The intruder had been none other than Irene Adler._

He recounted in near-perfect accuracy his conversation with Sherlock, after Molly had gone to bed: the notes, the rhymes, the fall, the riddles. And as he typed out from memory the notes that had been left on Winters and Avery, he paused in a moment of clarity and understanding that was washed clean away the second he tried to examine it, like forgetting a dream upon awakening, like holding water in a closed fist, and he decided that he had understood nothing after all.

He elided the uneventful night and carried the story through Lestrade's morning arrival and their return to the flat—omitting, of course, the very first thing that had happened upon stepping through their door—and so far as to their being called back to the scene of the break-in, Dimmock's anger, and the forensics team's appearance in the flat.

There, he stopped. He couldn't describe what Sherlock had done to Anderson, not without repeating what had been said, and he could not think about Anderson's words without remembering Moran's. They had been like a spell, conjuring the devastating memory of that basement kitchen and the word _your mind and body are forevermore filled with me_.

He shuddered. He closed his eyes and breathed, counting to five. Then he found himself on his feet and with his cane suddenly in hand, hastening to Sherlock's bedroom where he knew Sherlock kept a BK&T combat knife in his sock drawer. He unsheathed the blade and tested it with his thumb, breathing hard. He would sleep with it tonight, under his pillow.

Then he returned to the computer where he deleted the long document, every word, and slammed the laptop closed.

* * *

The night of Sherlock's arrest, John Watson couldn't sleep, and across the city, Molly Hooper couldn't either. Somewhere in London, Kitty Riley sat at a computer typing feverishly, Anderson slept in drug-induced bliss, Mycroft Holmes paced worriedly before a roaring fireplace, Sherlock sat rigidly in a dark cell, and homeless men and women stood in rings, whispering about vicious shadows and evil men and what might be done. The next morning, Ms Riley's article would appear, setting new wheels in motion, but tonight, as the vestiges of an unobserved Valentine's Day dissolved into nothing, Molly sat up in a borrowed bed, feeling the disquiet of the day and the foreboding of tomorrow wrap around her.

Greg's room was just down the hall. It had been more than an hour, now, since he had reassured her that his home was secured, showed her how to jiggle the handle on the toilet to get it to flush properly, and wished her good night, making no presumptions about her first night staying under his roof while her own flat, still a crime scene, sat empty. Tomorrow, she would learn that Mr Fazal wanted her out, and tomorrow Dr Torrence would place her on occupational reprimand, but those were as yet unknown concerns. Tonight, in the quiet of her head and the stillness of the room, she closed her eyes and saw a strange woman without a face entering her flat, touching her things, and planting threats in the form of roses and birds. And she saw John in hospital, hooked up to life-supporting instruments, every inch of skin testifying of acts more hateful than any she had ever known. She shuddered and hugged herself around the middle. Her flannel pyjamas and the heavy duvet seemed useless against the kind of cold she felt now. Softly, she set her feet on the rug, grabbed her dressing gown from the back of a chair, and stepped into the hall.

When she opened the door to Greg's darkened room, she saw his silhouette outlined in the soft blue light coming in through the window. He was awake, too, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his back to the door. His arms braced against his knees, and his head hung low and heavy.

She knocked lightly on the open door, hoping not to startle him. 'Greg?'

His head came up and he looked over his shoulder. 'Molly,' he said. He twisted around and brought his knee up on the bed to see her better. 'Is everything all right?'

'I just . . .' she started. Why was she being so timid? 'I'm jumping out of my skin. I keep hearing things, feeling things. I just don't want to be alone. Not tonight.'

She couldn't make out his face for the dark, but she saw his arm extend out toward her across the bed, the palm open and inviting. She came forward and reached for him. With her hand securely in his, he drew her close, and together they lay down upon the bed. He pulled the blankets up around them, and when he felt her shiver, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed his warm body into her back.

'I'm sorry this has happened,' he murmured. She felt his words pass from his body into hers, a soft vibration.

'Will they be okay?' she said. 'Sherlock and John?'

'I have to believe they will be,' he said.

She closed her eyes and laid her arm along his, and in the comfort of his embrace, she felt herself sinking into sleep. It was not a night for passion, but they shared an intimacy they had not permitted themselves before, one of softest affection and care, and in the moment before sleep stole her from the present, she thought she felt his lips kiss her hair, thought she heard him say, 'You should never have to feel afraid. I'll do anything I can to protect you.' But she didn't answer. In his arms, she was suddenly fast asleep.


	19. See No Evil

**CHAPTER 19: SEE NO EVIL**

**MONDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 2015**

The wind stung his face the moment he stepped onto the street and away from the courthouse. He stood in the same spot that John had two days and four hours prior, but, unlike for John, no long black car rolled up to meet him and take him home.

It was dark out, coming on ten o'clock, and he had already resigned himself to another sleepless night of pacing, fretting, and cursing at the custody sergeant for not allowing him to make a phone call whenever—if ever—they opened the door to slide him food or tea or let him use the loo. Soon, soon, they kept telling him, as though it would assuage him in the moment and he would forget, like a child. They'd denied him visitors, too. He was certain, _certain_, John had tried to come see him repeatedly the past couple of days and been turned away. Mycroft had come just the once. Lestrade was the only one who managed to get through, but only because he had brought with him the moronic solicitor. 'What they're doing isn't legal,' Lestrade said. 'You've been charged, not convicted. They're deliberately slowing the paperwork. Hang tight, Sherlock. I'll fix this.'

Lestrade must have done, because he was out now, though there was no sign of Lestrade. Their excuse for keeping him so long and releasing him so late in the day? To _protect _him, and to discourage the reporters who had been camping out on the pavement, waiting to catch him. A rumour had been leaked that he was being 'uncooperative and hostile', giving them cause to keep him in there another night at least. Neither descriptor was true. But that was no excuse for holding him two nights to begin with. Nor for 'forgetting' to take off the unnecessarily tightened cuffs for three days straight even while he sat in a solitary cell, behind a metal door with a single, glassed peephole no wider than four inches in diameter. He rubbed his wrists now to assuage the ache of raw, rubbed skin.

With the mandate that he not leave the city and that he report to a probation officer every seventy-two hours, he was released on bail and due back in magistrate's court in two weeks' time to answer the charge of assault. Lestrade had assured him, when visiting earlier that day (the only time he'd been free of the cuffs, thanks to the barking, infuriated DI), that it was a summary offence, for which he would most likely be fined. He also predicted a non-molestation order would be set up, but that was yet to be determined. For now, his property—coat, scarf, keys, wallet, and phone—were returned to him, and he was free to go. They kept his blood-stained gloves as evidence.

But when he took his phone out of pocket to call John and let him know he was on his way back to the flat, he saw that the days it had spent locked away in a little cardboard box had expired the charge, and the battery was dead. He sighed in annoyance and stepped toward the kerb to hail a cab.

Before he could flag one down, however, he caught sight of a young woman edging nearer him from behind a closed newsstand. She had been loitering a few seconds ago (he had not failed to notice her), but now she was inching her way closer like a nervous cat, her eyes wary and darting left and right, as though afraid to be seen of anyone but him. His temper was shot, so with a scowl, he turned to face her directly and said loudly, 'Well? Have out with it.'

Realising her failure at being furtive, she straightened more boldly and took large steps closer, though she stopped short before coming within arms' length. 'You the Detective? Sherlock Holmes?' she asked. Her shoulders were hunched against the wind, her back curved.

'Yes,' he answered plainly.

He observed her clothing: a dark green coat weathered by constant wear and wet, fingerless gloves that were ineffectual in protecting from the cold, a woollen bobble hat fraying at the edges and along the seam, and boots two sizes too big. Her fingertips were darkened with newspaper print and old mud, her cheeks coloured with city grime, and her hair had been pulled into the same plait for over a month. She was obviously one of the homeless.

'Thank god, I've been waiting forever in this fucking weather.' Her accent screamed streetwise.

'What do you want?'

'I've a message for you.'

'From whom?'

She didn't answer, just pulled a folded sheet of torn, lined paper from her pocket and stretched her arm forward, careful not to move her toes even an inch closer. He took it, and when he did, she backed away. He unfolded the sheet and read:

_you want to take down the slash man? end of old church street on the tames. be there in 20 mins or don't bother. come alone_

He snorted at the melodramatic tone but was nevertheless intrigued and so gave the note his full, customary inspection. The penmanship suggested the note had been written by a man, and a less educated one who didn't know the proper spelling of _Thames_. There were smudges of fingerprints—clearly held by dirty hands with no thought or care for self-identifying markers. And it smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. He breathed it in deeply. Whoever had written the note was one of the girl's own kind.

'Is this a joke?'

'Ain't no joke, Mr Holmes.'

'Who gave this to you?'

'A friend,' she replied. She began to edge away. 'We all want the same thing, don't we? They wanna talk, but only to you. You bring the fuzz, just forget it.' Then she shifted inside her coat and turned away.

He entertained only a moment's debate. He needed to get back to John, needed to see that he was okay. But if this opportunity gave him the key to bringing down the Slash Man, how could he dismiss it? He was desperate for more information, more clues, that could point him in the right direction and end this once and for all.

When the cab pulled up, he directed it to Old Church Street.

* * *

Sherlock stood fifteen minutes on the bank—a mixture of sand, dirt, and rock—looking out across the river and thinking wistfully of cigarettes and hot tea. It was downright cold, and he had his coat buttoned to the collar where his scarf was tucked securely under his chin. His bare hands were little protected inside his pockets. He did not care for hats, but right now he understood the appeal as the biting wind burned his ears red. Regretfully, he thought of 221B, and a part of him understood that he should have returned there first, if anything to dress more warmly. But the more dominant part—the one that needed information—knew that, given the opportunity, he would not have made any other choice.

Stomping his feet just to see if he could still feel his toes, he decided that he would wait only two minutes more. Two minutes for his mystery informant to show, and if not, he was gone. They knew where he could be found. Hell, half the newspaper-reading city knew. So maybe just one more minute. One more—

'Hey, freak!'

He turned about to answer. That's when he saw a line of (he counted quickly) nine men and one woman approaching from farther down the bank, coming from the direction of Battersea Bridge. Above them, the A312 traffic zipped by, streaks of light in the black world.

'That him?' one asked another.

'That's him.'

They framed him like a crescent moon, and he stood to face them with his back to the water. The dark obscured their faces, but the lights behind them highlighted their frames. He took the measure of them: Two were taller than he, three matched him for height, and the rest were shorter. But it didn't matter. The maths was easy. He was outnumbered.

'What is this then?' he said. 'A lure? How clever of you.'

One of the shadows spoke. 'Shut up. We're the ones doing the talking tonight.'

'S'right,' said another. 'And you're going to listen up, understand?'

'I'm all ears,' Sherlock drawled. He assessed the weak points in their human barricade. The little man, third from the left, would go down easily, as would the fat one in the middle, the one with girth, not bulk, and a centre of gravity that would be easy to topple. Logical, sound, but that didn't stop his heart from beginning to race.

'Then we'll get straight to it, won't we?' said the first. 'You're in trouble, Mr Holmes.'

He maintained a tone of dispassionate curiosity. 'Am I?'

'S'right. An' lemme tell ya why. It's 'cause we ain't gonna take this no more.'

'By _this_, I assume you mean—'

'We're dying. Our kind, you know. The sods of the streets. The Gaffer, Jack and Jill, and who knows who's yet to get snuffed. One by one, he's picking us off. You know who I'm talking 'bout, don't you, Mr Holmes?'

'Of course.'

'And you know whose fault that is?'

'I should think it is the fault of the killer.'

'It's _your _fault as much as his!' shouted another shadow, anger shooting forth like water from a crack in a dam.

'You come back to life, and look what happens!' cried another.

'Don't be absurd,' said Sherlock. 'The Slash Man was active long before I returned.'

'Ain't nobody died, though,' said the spokesman. 'And we think we know why. It's your mate, isn't it?'

For the first time since seeing their approach, Sherlock's stomach clenched in fear.

'_That's _who Old Slash really wants—the one that got away.'

He flinched visibly at the echo. 'You don't know what you're talking about,' Sherlock growled.

'So here's what we aim to do,' the man continued. 'We give him back. Watson. We give him who he _really_ wants, and the attacks will stop.'

'The naivety of your reasoning is astounding,' he returned. 'He's playing a game you can't possibly understand. If you want the attacks to stop, you'll let me do my job. I have just as much interest in stopping him as—'

'_Wrong!_ You're a liar, Mr Holmes, a goddamn liar! If you gave two shits about what was happening, you woulda stopped it by now! _You're_ the Detective! _You're _the one who can see a man's history in his shoes and read the minds of criminals.'

'An oversimplific—'

'But you've thrown in the towel, ain't that right. You just don't care no more. But us? We don't want no more of our people dead, not a one. We ain't so content to sit on our hands. So here's what's gonna happen. You bring us Watson, and we'll take care of the rest, yeah? Ain't nobody else gotta get hurt.'

Sherlock stepped forward aggressively. 'I'll personally come after any man who touches John Watson.'

The spokesman came forward too, and suddenly he and Sherlock were nose to nose. This close, even in the dark, Sherlock could make out the hairs in the man's dark eyebrows, the scab of an old cut under one eye. 'So _our_ people have to suffer, _our_ people have to die, just so's you can keep _your_ friend, just _one man_, from giving what he owes?'

'He already gave enough!'

'Not his life! _That's _what Old Slash wants from him, yeah? One more hard fuck and then the blood from his veins. Watson's the price, and if you won't pay it, we will.'

'If you even _dare—!_' Sherlock roared.

The man shoved him backward, two hands punching hard into his shoulders. 'Fuck you, you don't _get it_, man. _You don't get it_. You don't see what's happening to us, do you? You just turn a blind eye. Ain't that right.'

'And a deaf ear,' said another.

'He's a ruddy coward.'

The wind howled across the river and the cars rolled ignorantly by up on the road. Above their heads, the rolling winter storm clouds winked out the stars.

'Listen to me,' said Sherlock, digging his feet into the ground, bracing. 'I understand why you're frustrated and scared. Believe me, I do. No one should have to suffer like this. And I promise you, I'm doing everything I can think of to—'

They started screaming at him, calling him a liar and a coward and a cad, shouting accusations of betrayal and conspiring against them, and when Sherlock shouted in return, beseeching them to stop, to listen, the leader said, 'I think we've heard enough outta you,' and a dark fist came up out of the shadow of their ring and slammed into his face.

In an instant, he was down on one knee, balanced on one hand, stunned, but he felt the crescent wrap around until he was encircled on all sides, in front and behind. There wasn't another moment to waste. He sprang forward, catching the leader in the gut with his shoulder and driving him to the ground. He made to break through the barrier of bodies, but he wasn't fast enough.

'Grab 'im! Grab 'im!' they cried, and before he could land more than two blows, they had seized his arms at the shoulders, elbows, and wrists, and dragged him back, planting him on his knees.

'Killing me won't stop the Slash Man!' he said. 'It won't stop anything!'

'Shut him up.'

Someone kicked him in the stomach and kneed him in the face, but though his body tried to curl inward, the gripping arms didn't permit him to fall. Then a hand seized his hair and yanked his head back, forcing his mouth to gape wide. 'This'll stopper that goddamn mouth,' one said as a large hand carrying a heap of muck from the riverbank clamped across his mouth. Cold mud hit the back of his throat, and he choked, spluttered, but the man didn't release him. Instead, the hand rubbed viciously back and forth, and Sherlock felt the sand and chips of slate cut along his gums and lips. He twisted furiously in their arms until the hand was withdrawn and he could spit and cough up the mud, but they weren't finished. Someone else was coming forward now, another fistful of sludge and sand, to rub into his eyes, and from behind, more mud to shove into his ears. He grunted and groaned and pulled and flailed, but to no avail. His resistance was met with slaps across the face, landing hard like the crack of a whip, and kicks to the back, butt, legs. He was released only when he heard the woman say, 'I get his shoes.'

Suddenly, he was on his back, and hands were everywhere, pulling at his feet, yanking at his coat. They didn't bother with the buttons—they just tugged wildly until the threads tore. He tried to kick out, but they held him down, two men to a leg, so he couldn't move. One shoe came off, then the other, then his socks, and meanwhile the swarm of hands above divested him of his Belstaff coat, his suit coat, and his belt. Then they ripped the scarf from around his throat. Only then did the hands release him. Someone kicked him hard in the ribs, and he rolled onto his stomach, the rocks and damp pressing through his thin shirt.

They were backing away from him now, widening the entrapping circle—he could feel it. Though his eyes stung with blinding grime, he could sense them moving away. Setting his bare hands into the cold, wet soil, he started pushing himself up to his knees. He passed a hand across his face, trying to clear his burning eyes, when a sharp pain erupted in the side of his head.

He cried out in pain even as one of the men shouted in triumph, 'Got 'im!'

Warm blood slid down his face, but before he could give it any attention, another unexpected pain burst in shoulder, and then another at the hip. They were hurling stones. The fourth missed—he heard it land heavily in the earth beside him—but the fifth smashed into his right hand, which was raised to shield his head. They pelted him with rocks, all about the size of a closed fist, jagged and hurled with great force, and he lay helpless on the ground, still choking on dirt, still unable to see, never knowing where the next rock would fall. His only protection was his own arms wrapped around his head like a split helmet while the missiles landed like small explosions, a storm of rocks, along his exposed body, tearing away fabric and flesh, grazing his neck, slicing across his scalp.

'Had enough, Mr Holmes? We get through to you yet?'

He shook with cold and with anger and with pain. He had no intention of giving answer, and they expected none. Instead, they came at him again and seized him under the arms. They lifted him bodily and dragged him toward the water. There, they flung him face-first into the lapping shallows of the wintry river.

* * *

'Hello?'

'Hello, Auntie!'

'Bless me, is this Gillian?'

'Of course it is! How are you, Auntie?'

'Oh lovely, dear, just lovely. Well, there's the hip, but that's old news now, isn't it? And it's getting more and more difficult to warm these old bones. Your mother was the same way, wasn't she? Lord, I sound just like her these days! But don't let me natter on. Go on, it's been ages since we had a proper chat. How's Robert?'

'He's fine, we're all fine.'

'And the twins? Oh, how I miss those little rascals.'

'We're _all _fine, Auntie. Look, there's a reason I'm calling.'

'And that mean dog of yours? Rufus, Rufie, I forget his name.'

'Ralph, and we put him down last summer.'

'Oh, that's right, I remember.' That had been the last time she'd called. 'The motorbike.'

'Auntie, are you listening?'

'Of course, I am, dear.'

'Here's the thing. We've been reading the paper and seeing things on the news—'

'How's the weather up your way?'

'Same as it is in London. _Listen_. It's about your tenant. Sherlock Holmes . . . Auntie? You still there?'

'I'm here, dear. What about my Sherlock?'

'Rob and I are concerned. I don't know how closely you've been following the news, but yesterday we read something in the paper about this guy, and he seems, well, God, Auntie, he seems downright scary.'

'Sherlock? No . . .'

'But have you _heard_ what he's done? _All_ of it? Just the other day he beat up a police officer! For no goddamn reason!'

'_Language_, Gillian, goodness, if the children should hear!'

'It's not safe. Not anymore. We want you to come stay here with us. For a time. The twins adore you, you know they do, and there's no reason for you to be living on your own like that anymore, with no one to look after you.'

'I'm fine, dear! I've never been happier.'

'We'll get someone to manage the property for you, have the tenants removed, find new ones, everything. You won't have to lift a finger. And Auntie, maybe it's time you start thinking about selling.'

'Oh, I could never sell 221. This is my home. No, that's sweet of you, really, dear, but I think I'll just stay right here in London while I've still got my wits about me. The hip's no bother, not really.'

'But there's nothing _for_ you in London anymore. No work, no family.'

'Now now, there's plenty of both.'

'It's not _safe_. God_dam_mit, Auntie, the man's a psychopath! He's a killer! And he's living right above you!'

'Sorry, sweetheart, that'll be the kettle—'

'Please, listen to me!'

'I've got to dash. You'll give my love to Robert and the children, won't you?'

'Aunt—!'

Mrs Hudson lay the phone back in the cradle beside the cool kettle. Then she dabbed the tears from beneath her eyes with a handkerchief and sat down to think.

* * *

He felt like he had been thrown into a fire—pain so intense it went beyond hot or cold. The freezing water set his every nerve screaming in anguish, shocking his system so terribly he didn't have air enough even to gasp. Instead, he thrashed until he could get his limbs under himself again and pushed himself up and out of the water. He stumbled, lost balance, and fell back to his knees. His lungs felt like they had collapsed. The murky water, dripping off his face, stole away most of the mud, and together with his tears of pain began to clear his sight. But as he crawled out of the bitterly cold water on hands and knees onto a damp bank, he could see no sign of his attackers. They had fled as swiftly as they had come.

Upon the shore again, he rose trembling to his bare feet and shuffled forward, but a pain searing his side made him keel over. He stayed on his knees a moment, unmoving, waiting for the fire and pain to ebb, but the both persevered. Again, he struggled to his feet. The jagged shale, mixed with sand and broken bottles and other rubbish, stabbed with each step, but with each ticking second, he lost more and more feeling in his toes, feet, and legs. Wet from head to toe, he shivered violently, ceaselessly, his shoulders heaving and jarring his whole frame. His head pounded, his teeth rattled, his bones felt wrenched, but he kept moving, crossed the gritty bank, and headed back toward the nearest stone incline to get himself to the street. Once there, the wind pushed him across the road.

Staggering, he made it back to Old Church Street, to the same corner where he had directed the cabbie to drop him off. The night was still young, but the street was quiet, not a cab in sight, and the cars that did pass by paid him as much attention as if he were an alley dog. When he tried to step into the street to flag one down, it swerved soundlessly around him and sped away.

Along with his coat and jacket, they had also stolen his wallet, keys, and battery-drained phone. Now, he had nothing, not even a pair of shoes. He barely had his own body heat. It rose off him as steam, a ghostlike fog, and it was thinning quickly.

The first cab he saw, on the corner of Old Church and King, he waved down urgently, his extended hand trembling, making him look jittery, drugged. The cabbie, deciding he looked like trouble, didn't even slow. He carried on, feet nothing more than pale, numb stumps, not bleeding more profusely only for the constriction of veins and capillaries. He calculated quickly, while he still could: Baker Street was still three miles away. Walking without impediment would take him a good hour. He didn't have a good hour.

He was surrounded by gated flats and parallel-parked cars, darkened furniture shops and closed dress shops. At last, he spotted a corner pub. There, he could stop inside where it was warm, use to the phone, call John. It was the only clear thought in his head: _get to John_. Wincing, he heaved the door open and stepped inside. He was reeling toward the bar when the host stepped in his way.

'Oi, I know you. I seen your ugly mug on the telly. Sherlock Holmes?'

The half-empty pub heard the name. Silence fell, and all turned to look.

He cast his own eyes away, anxious not to meet theirs. 'I j-just n-need the phone,' he said.

'Look at that,' said a man who sat drinking at the bar. 'Full-on pissed, he is.'

'A right mess,' said another. 'Looks like someone finally gave him the what-for.'

'Heard he was a paedo, on top of everything else. Probably got roughed up for _that_, and good riddance.'

'Out you get, you ruddy wanker,' said the host, and he grabbed him up by the scruff of his sopping, torn shirt and hauled him out, back onto the street.

He was having trouble breathing now. Each inhalation felt like a knife in his sides, and each cold rush of wind knocked the air out of him. He made it another two streets, leaving red footprints in his wake, before stumbling into the middle of the road where a car screeched to halt. Sherlock looked up and saw a little yellow light reading _Taxi_. His hands landed on the bonnet, as though he had the power to hold the entire vehicle in place. Then he sidestepped around the car, pulled open the back door, and crawled in.

'Blimey, you okay?' said the cabbie, appraising him through the rearview mirror.

Sherlock kept his head hung low and turned aside, keeping to the shadows.

'B-baker,' he said haltingly, 'Sssstreet.'

The cabbie put the car back into first gear and began rolling. 'Baker Street? That what you say? Hey mate, you don't look so good. Sure I can't take you to A&E?'

'N-no.'

'You need a doctor, mate.'

That's what he'd been saying. Didn't the man understand? 'B-baker Street,' he said again, and the driver nodded his concession.

The back of the taxi was warmer than the street, but he was still wet, dripping, and shivering like mad. The ache went down to the bone. He willed the man to drive faster, and whatever positive energy he sent to the front of the taxi seemed to be working. The cabbie laid his foot down on the accelerator and zipped around corners, pressing Sherlock's body into the door. His eyes were growing heavy, and he wanted to sleep. All the while, the cabbie kept glancing in his mirror, watching him.

He never said the words _221_, but that's exactly where the cabbie took him.

* * *

For John, it had been a wretched two nights, and what looked to be going on a third.

Saturday night, he'd barely slept at all, but for once, when, pushed far past mental exhaustion, he had dozed off at the desk, his head on his arms. But he started awake sometime in the darkest of the pre-dawn hours when he thought he heard a thump from below, then heavy footsteps on the stair, and a soft whistling. Those weren't Sherlock's steps, and they definitely weren't Mrs Hudson's. He grabbed the combat knife, removed it from its leather sheath, and forced himself out onto the landing, turning on every light within reach as he went. But the staircase was bare, the entryway empty. Heart in his throat, he returned to the flat and bolted the door.

Sunday, he returned to the courthouse with Lestrade where he sat for hours waiting for permission to see Sherlock, permission that was never granted. Lestrade fumed and paced, making phone call after phone call to every judge and influential law enforcement officer he knew, but to no avail. They only told him to be patient, stop overreacting, and let the system work. Lestrade and Molly took him to lunch to get his mind off things and away from the reporters who were trying to snap photographs or catch a word, and while he appreciated the gestures, he mostly just wanted to be alone. So he declined the dinner invitation, ate instead with Mrs Hudson, and locked himself away in the flat once again.

He pushed through the night, reading every page of Sherlock's internet history since early December until the words blurred together and his thoughts were hazy like clouds. He attempted to write, but never managed more than five minutes' worth of material before stopping, deleting, and downing another coffee. In the corners of his eyes, the shadows were moving. Three times he felt hot breath on the back of his neck. And once, when he passed in front of the mirror hanging over the hearth, he saw someone standing just behind him. He cried out and whirled, but there was no one there.

Once he recovered, he removed the mirror, lest he shatter it like he had the first.

Monday, he didn't leave the flat. He ignored Lestrade's repeated attempts to phone him, texting back that he was fine and wanted to be alone. He told Mrs Hudson he wasn't hungry. And for the first time since they had started, he missed his afternoon session with Ella.

He had work to do. The day passed, and night fell, and he had work to do.

* * *

The buzzer skittered, and John's head came around from where he had just pinned another note to the wall. Automatically, as if by some new internal programming, his heart began to race. That was not Morse.

He didn't move, though the tremor in his hand reawakened. He clamped his other fist around it to keep it still.

After a long pause, the buzzer sounded again. This time it was the code, and it slowly, painstakingly, spelled out _SH_. But he didn't move to answer it. Sherlock was still in custody. Surely he would have texted if he were on his way back, which couldn't be the case, given the hour. And anyway, Sherlock could let _himself_ in, and John heard no steps on the stairs. He closed his eyes to focus on his breathing, but he couldn't shake the fear: someone was at the door who had Sherlock's code.

After another long pause, a new message began to be transmitted: N-O K-E-Y.

Might it be Sherlock after all? Why didn't he call?

John turned away from the wall where he had been organising his work and was halfway to the window before remembering that all the panes had been boarded up—no one could see in or out.

He could just ignore the bell. Pretend no one was at home. But then he heard it: a shout from the street: _'John!_'

He knew this one. It wasn't the eager I've-found-something _John_, or the angry the-police-are-all-twats _John_. It was an urgent, fraught, I-need-your-help _John_. Sherlock was in trouble.

Forgetting his cane, he rushed out the flat and was halfway down the stairs before the deep ache flared to life. He caught himself against the wall, suppressed a deep moan and grinded his teeth, then pushed himself forward.

Wrenching open the door, he found the man himself leaning wearily against the building, his forehead resting on the white stone framing the door. John stared, aghast. Sherlock's face was pale blue like the moon, bruised, and bleeding; his hair was flattened as though with rain, and his shirt, clinging wetly to his chest and shoulders, was muddy and torn. He wore no coat at all. Nor shoes.

'B-be so g-good as to p-pay the cabbie, J-john,' he said, his whole frame shaking with his words. Meanwhile, the taxi pulled away behind him. 'I've lost my w-wallet.'

'Oh God,' John breathed, and he caught Sherlock as he fell forward, his foot having failed to clear the threshold.

John flung one of Sherlock's arms around his neck and shoulders to keep him from hitting the ground, hefted him up with an arm around the narrow waist, and, kicking the front door closed, guided him to the stairs. He watched as Sherlock lifted a leg and gingerly set a long, white foot on the bottommost step, as though testing its solidity. John realised that Sherlock's foot must be almost entirely numb. The cold encasing his body was bleeding into John's own, and when he shivered, John shivered with him. He grasped Sherlock's wet trouser leg at the knee and lifted it for him. 'Good, you're doing good,' he said encouragingly, and together, slowly, they ascended.

When they reached the flat, he left Sherlock standing hunched in the centre of the room and returned to the landing. '_Mrs Hudson!_'

He flew back to Sherlock's side, straightened him, and began quickly unbuttoning his shirt. 'You're shivering, Sherlock. That's good,' he said. 'Keep it up. Don't try to stop.' He heard Mrs Hudson's door open below, then her quick steps on the stair. John began peeling the wet shirt down Sherlock's shoulder, but he froze in shock when he saw a back peppered with deep bruises and open wounds. Mrs Hudson stepped into the flat, and a hand flew to her mouth to hide a gasp.

John regained himself. 'He's half frozen,' he told her, calm, though carrying a certain exigency in his manner. He continued peeling off the ruined shirt and tossed it to the side. 'I need dry towels, blankets. Hand me that blanket just there.' It was the one John slept with at night, a heavy, woven material.

She hastened to obey and opened the blanket and to set it delicately around Sherlock's shoulders while John undid his trousers.

'Towels, Mrs Hudson,' John said. She scuttled off to the bathroom, and John shimmied the trousers down Sherlock's hips, their wetness hampering the ease of pulling them off. When they were finally down around his ankles, John, crouched low and, ignoring the pain in his own leg, directed, 'Step out.' Sherlock tried to lift his leg but seemed unable to bend his bobbing knee. 'Okay, no, it's fine. Here.' John stood again, tugged the blanket closed around him, and helped him shuffle over to the sofa. 'Keep shivering, Sherlock. Don't stop. Tuck your arms in.'

With him now seated on the sofa, John was able to get the trousers off completely, followed by his underwear, by the time Mrs Hudson returned with a full stack of towels and another couple of blankets.

'Wrap his legs, feet. Let's dry him off.'

Together they worked to get him dry, and Sherlock sat doubled over, trying to get warm. But when John rubbed a towel across his hair, Sherlock winced and sucked air through his teeth. John pulled back the towel, now stained red. Peering closer, John saw a gash across his scalp and blood coating his hair. 'Shit,' he said softly. Then, to Mrs Hudson, 'The emergency kit's in the kitchen. And I need you to run a bath. Warm water, not hot. About body temperature. And prepare something hot to drink.'

'Tea?'

'Chocolate, if we have it. More calories. Sherlock, can you cough?'

Sherlock coughed and nodded.

'If you can cough, you can swallow. Chocolate, Mrs Hudson. Hot.'

She nodded and hurried off for the kitchen.

John slipped his warm hands inside the blanket, splayed one across Sherlock's chest, the other on his back, feeling for two things: the temperature of his skin, and the vibrations of his breathing. When he had the right instruments, he'd be able to tell more, but already he knew that it wasn't good. He withdrew the hands and gently drew Sherlock's head closer to examine the wounds in his scalp.

He parted the damp curls, the better to see the damage. One laceration was long, though not so deep. Cold and mud, acting as a sealant, had kept it from bleeding too terribly. Still, he would likely need stitches. Another wound looked more like a direct hit: the skin was ruptured like the points of a compass. He would clean and treat the wounds once he could get Sherlock into the bath, but he was likely concussed.

Keeping a light hand on the back of his neck, John asked gently, 'Who did this to you?' When Sherlock didn't speak, just shivered, John fought to keep the anger from his voice as he further questioned, 'Was it the police?'

'N-no.'

Softer now, more timorous. 'Was it _them?_'

But Sherlock shook his head. John sat closer, wrapped an arm around his back, rubbing firmly, trying to share body warmth. 'St-treet people,' said Sherlock at last. 'Homeless. They jumped me. B-by the riv-ver.' He took a ragged breath, coughed, sniffed. 'Should've c-come . . . home.'

John heard the bath running, and Mrs Hudson returned with the emergency medical kit.

'What more can I do?' she asked.

'Sit there on that side of him. Keep him warm.'

'Should I rub his legs and feet? They looked so pale.'

'Trunk first. We don't want to push too much blood to the heart by warming his extremities before they're ready.'

John opened the kit, taking out the digital thermometer first and placing it in Sherlock's mouth under the tongue. Then he removed the stethoscope, settled the tips in his ears, and breathed hot air onto the diaphragm. He pulled the blanket down Sherlock's back a little, seeing again evidence of bruising and broken skin. Anger curled in his blood, and he breathed between gritted teeth, fighting for calm. Then he placed the diaphragm against Sherlock's back and instructed him to breathe deeply. There was the faintest rattle.

The thermometer beeped, and John removed it, but he was startled to see that Sherlock's saliva had turned the white rod a sickly brown.

'How long were you out there?' he asked as he read the screen: 31°. Moderate hypothermia.

'Don't know. L-less than an hour, m-maybe.'

He pulled out a pen light and moved to crouch in front of Sherlock; meanwhile, Mrs Hudson's arm replaced John's around Sherlock's shoulders. 'Look at me,' he directed, but Sherlock, quaking more severely now, was bent double and couldn't lift his head.

'Hurts-s-s.'

'I know, Sherlock,' he said, rubbing a knee, trying to coax him into looking up. 'That's a good thing. It needs to hurt. That's how you heal.' He clicked the pen light on. 'It means you're warming up.' He lifted Sherlock's head by the chin and flashed the light into his eyes and away again, testing for dilation and constriction. 'Any nausea?'

'No.'

'Double vision? Black spots? White spots?'

'N-no.'

'I'll go check on the bath,' said Mrs Hudson. 'Chocolate should be ready soon.'

John set aside the kit. Then he brushed a thumb across a dark streak at the corner of Sherlock's lips, thinking at first that it must be blood. But it was dirt. There was more in the corners of his eyes, the rims of his nostrils, the bowls of his ears. 'Open your mouth for me,' he said. Sherlock unclenched his jaw and complied, and when John shone the light inside and pulled the bottom lip down, he saw evidence of both mud and blood—scraped gums, gritty teeth, all the way back to his throat. 'God, what did they do to you?'

The water in the bathroom turned off, and the kettle whistled.

'I'm-m not enough, J-john.' As ever, he was felt compelled to explain something, but he wasn't thinking clearly enough to do it.

'Sh-sh, let's talk about it later, yeah?' said John. 'Sit tight.'

He rose swiftly and left for the kitchen, returning with a large glass of tepid water and a bowl. 'Rinse and spit,' he instructed, and when Sherlock did, the water came back murky. He did this several times before John was satisfied. Then John set both glass and bowl aside and resumed his place on the couch beside Sherlock and pulled him in close again. He would warm soon enough. If the hypothermia were any more severe, skin-to-skin contact would be best to bring his temperature up, but he was in a warm, dry place now, and though the shivering continued, it was only a sign of a body working to generate heat.

Moments later, Mrs Hudson returned with a mug of chocolate, and John helped him drink it. 'As much as you can manage,' he said, holding the back of Sherlock's head and tipping the mug into his mouth, as Sherlock's hands were locked inside the blanket. He swallowed well, Adam's apple dipping with each large gulp. John let him sit with it a short while, knowing his body was already working to burn the calories away. This would help. One more time, he checked his body temperature with the thermometer: 33°. Almost out of danger.

John set aside the cup. 'I'm going to check on the bath,' he said.

He had Mrs Hudson sit with him while he tested the temperature of the water. Too warm, and the blood vessels in his legs and arms would dilate, causing the blood pressure in his major organs to drop, which might lead to cardiac arrest. Too cold, and the hypothermia would worsen, causing him to slip into unconsciousness. He checked it first with his own hand, then with the thermometer. Mrs Hudson had gotten it just about perfect.

Together, he and Mrs Hudson helped Sherlock to the bathroom where they unwound him from the blankets and towels, and John lowered him steadily into the water. It was then that he could really see the damage done to Sherlock's body: the purple, black, and red markings made his skin look like a minefield: small explosions had blossomed up and down his torso, front and back, arms and legs, hands and head. Some abrasions were slight, like smudged drops of dark paint, but too many resembled eruptions: large circles of black cracked open like a geode, and only the intense cold had kept them from bleeding more profusely. Sherlock groaned in pain as the feeling began to return to his body, and the wounds began to bleed.

'Do you want more chocolate?' John asked.

'I'd rather tea,' said Sherlock through a deep moan.

John nodded at Mrs Hudson. 'Tea's fine.'

Then John set about to clean the dirt away from the wounds, starting with his head. He treated the gashes with surgical spirit and stitched the skin as swiftly as he could. Sherlock, still in a state of half-dazed compliance, bore it well. Then he cleared away the mud, which he found everywhere, from clinging to Sherlock's eyelashes to coating the lining of his ears, one of which was already recently scarred. John worked silently, filled with questions but suppressing them in a tight, little pit somewhere deep inside, alongside his anger.

When he touched a particularly dark bruise along the left rib, Sherlock made a noise like a stepped-on pup and flinched, splashing John with water. 'That one might be fractured or broken,' John said, wiping his face with a sleeve. 'I'll get you some paracetamol with your tea.' He looked into Sherlock's face, concerned. 'What was it?'

Sherlock sighed—as his body temperature rose, his mental faculties cleared. '_That _one, I think, was a boot. The rest were rocks.'

'Rocks?'

'On the banks of the Thames. They threw rocks at me.'

'Your homeless network?'

'Yes.'

John felt the suppressed rage flare up again; he stamped it down. 'Why?'

'Because I'm killing them.'

'What?'

'And they were angry.' He flexed his fingers under the water, his face screwed up in pain. 'And scared.'

In pieces, he told John what had happened, beginning with the girl waiting for him on the street with the message, how they had waylaid him, argued with him, and then fallen upon him, stolen his property, and pelted him with stones before flinging him into the river and running away.

'I told them,' he said in the end, 'that killing me wouldn't stop the Slash Man. But that's not true, is it?'

'Sherlock—'

'If this is all happening because of me, if I'm the reason, then take me out of the picture, and—'

'Sherlock, stop. It's not that simple.'

In little more than a whisper, Sherlock said, 'Maybe it is.'

John froze in his ministrations. He stared at Sherlock, but Sherlock wouldn't look back.

'So what are you saying? That we should turn ourselves over to Moran? Is that what you mean?'

Sherlock looked up in surprise, a light of horror in his eyes.

John's own flashed angrily. 'Say the word, and we'll do it.'

'Here we are, love,' said Mrs Hudson, returning with tea, but seeing that Sherlock was now more lucid and not especially decent, she excused herself to go tidy up the kitchen. John stepped to the cabinet for the painkillers, but as he reached for the paracetamol, he changed his mind and pulled down the bottle containing his own prescribed pain medication instead and handed Sherlock two, as well as a Benzodiazepine tablet. Sherlock took the pills, drank the tea, and when the cup was empty again, John took his temperature one last time: 36.4°. The danger had passed.

He pulled the plug on the drain, knowing he shouldn't leave Sherlock in a bath that would only lose heat as the minutes passed. Then he helped him out of the bath and dried him off. Weary, unable to stay upright for long, he sat heavily on the toilet seat, a towel wrapped around his middle, to brush his teeth while John dressed his remaining wounds.

At last, John pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom, helped him into warm clothing, and laid him softly to his bed. As he pulled the covers up to Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock proffered only a token verbal complaint. 'I have things to do, John. There's so much to do.'

'First, sleep. Everything else can wait for morning.'

As he brought more blankets from the cupboard and lay them across the bed, John made a mental note to crank the heat in the flat a little higher tonight. He turned off the lamps and moved toward the door. But when he opened his mouth to ask whether Sherlock was comfortable or cold, he saw in the light coming from the hallway that, surrounded in warmth, Sherlock had burrowed his head into a pillow, eyes already closing in sleep.

John watched him a while longer, unmoving, from where he stood by the door. In the quiet of the room, the stillness, the reality of what had happened, what might have happened, began to descend on him. He felt something well up inside of him, something unnamed and frightening, and his eyes began to burn. He couldn't leave, not just yet. Softly, he crossed the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress.

For untold minutes, he watched Sherlock sleep by the light of the hall as if, by looking away, he might make him disappear. So he watched. His battered face, though smoothed in sleep, was not untroubled, though John couldn't say why he thought this, exactly. There was something youthful about him in sleep, and yet at the same time so terribly aged. Like a man dead before his time, one who was never meant to come back, but did anyway. John lay the backs of his fingers against his brow, his cheek, feeling for temperature, but also, feeling that he was real. It was as if he could never be too certain.

His skin was cool, his breath steady. So John had to check just one more thing: the beat of his heart. A pulse would do. Gently, mindful not to disturb, he pulled back the covers just enough to expose one of Sherlock's hands, which he drew out from beneath the blankets. In the dark, John pressed two fingers to Sherlock's wrist and felt for the beat of his heart. It answered with steady throbs, like an incoming tide pushing to shore. He held the hand and counted the beats until, with an accidental brush of his fingers against the back of Sherlock's hand, he felt something else: a thin, hard ridge, like a seam, running across the surface.

Something he had missed? Trusting Sherlock would remain asleep, John leant forward and turned on the bedside lamp, careful to angle the light away from his face so that it fell just so on the backside of his hand. And there, John saw long red streaks, some scabbed, some scarred, the skin inflamed. Rocks hadn't done that.

He returned to the bathroom and from the cabinet extracted the antibacterial cream he had used on his own wounds, the tube nearly empty. It would be enough. Back in Sherlock's room and sitting again on the edge of the mattress, he squeeze a few drops onto his fingers and rubbed the cool cream into the reddened skin. Sherlock didn't stir.

When he was finished, he set the cream aside, but he didn't drop Sherlock's hand. Instead, held it in both of his own.

'We've really done a number on each other, haven't we?' he said in a low voice.

Then the light coming through the doorway dimmed. He looked up to see Mrs Hudson standing anxiously, wringing her hands, as she looked in.

'Will he be all right?' she asked softly.

John nodded. 'He just needs rest.' He let go of Sherlock's hand and tucked it back inside the covers. He took one last look before following Mrs Hudson into the hallway and closing the door behind him. Together, they returned to the sitting room.

'A bit of a scary sight,' John said, 'but he wasn't in any real danger.' He smiled briefly to put her at ease, but she didn't seem to be buying it.

'What happened out there?'

He sighed and shook his head sorrowfully. 'He was attacked,' he said. Then he cleared his throat to rid himself of the sudden lump that had appeared there.

'Who did it?'

'Strangers. He didn't know them. But he got away. That's the important thing.'

She nodded, still looking unconvinced, and touched his arm briefly before dropping her hand to her side.

'We've proven to be a bit more than you bargained for, haven't we,' he said. Her head came up sharply. He tried to infuse a touch of lightness to his tone and explained, 'Most landladies don't have to worry about tenants who shoot at walls or get shot at through windows.' He sighed. 'You shouldn't have had to deal with this tonight.'

'He's family,' she said defensively, then added, 'of a kind. You both are.'

He smiled sadly. 'Yes, but—'

'John Watson,' she said, and he was taken aback by the sharpness of her tone. 'I have my boys back. Both of them. Don't think that I regret that for even a second.'

* * *

When Lestrade's phone went off at midnight that evening, he stared at the screen a little dumbfounded, for though _John W_ had been programmed into his address book for three-and-a-half months now, he'd never received an actual call from that number, just a couple of texts. He quickly overcame his shock, unwound his arm from around Molly's shoulders where they sat together on the sofa watching telly, and hastened to answer.

'John?'

He received no greeting in return. Instead, he heard the voice of John Watson, speaking very heatedly: 'The entire city is calling for his blood, and you don't _insist _on sending him home with a police escort? You don't call me? What the hell is wrong with you?'

Lestrade blinked and rose swiftly to his feet. Molly watched his face nervously. 'John, what happened?' he asked. His mind raced. Last he'd been told, Sherlock would be spending a third night in a jail cell, a point Lestrade had hotly contested—and on legal grounds!—but which had no power to influence directly. He'd not been told of any change, though he had specifically demanded to be informed if and when the judge mandated bail.

'He was _beaten up_, that's what. They jumped him and stoned him like it was the bloody Middle Ages!'

'_What? _Oh my g— I'm sorry. John, I swear I didn't know he'd been released. Is he there now? Have you taken him to A&E? I'm coming over.'

'Don't bother. He doesn't want police involvement anymore—you people have done enough.'

'John, you have to report this—'

'But just so you know, Lestrade, if they had killed him, his death would have been on _you_.'

And the line went dead.


End file.
